


To Know That You're Mine

by missbeizy



Category: Glee
Genre: BDSM, Blindfolds, Dom/sub, Face-Fucking, M/M, Restraints, Sensory Deprivation, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-19
Updated: 2015-05-19
Packaged: 2018-03-31 06:20:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3967675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missbeizy/pseuds/missbeizy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elliott introduces Kurt to the D/S scene.  Kurt enjoys himself but doesn’t find exactly what he’s looking for until an adjunct vocal professor at NYADA named Blaine Anderson makes him think that maybe he can have his submissive needs met as well as the romance he’s always wanted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Know That You're Mine

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: dom!Blaine/sub!Kurt containing: wrist restraint, face fucking, blindfolds, noise-canceling headphones (sensory deprivation), spanking (with a belt) and some rough sex. All consensual.

The first time that the topic comes up, Kurt has a belly full of warm sake and good sushi and Elliott's face is bright red.  If Elliott is blushing, he must be telling the truth, because he's both a terrible liar and usually only becomes flustered when it's called for.

"All I'm saying is, don't knock it 'til you've tried it," Elliott says.  He uses his chopsticks to guide a piece of unagi into his mouth. "I was sure it wasn't for me until he had me trussed up and face down—"

"Oh my god, we're in public," Kurt says.  

Kurt is all for saucy talk, but this is  _his_ sushi place—the waiter knows his birthday and what he does for a living—and he'd rather avoid certain topics.

"No one's listening.  Relax," Elliott says.

He's looking particularly attractive in black jeans and a maroon Henley. There's a new tattoo on the inside of his wrist that Kurt keeps meaning to ask about, but the sudden, warm gleam in his eyes is far more interesting.

"Let me spring for a bottle," he says, when Kurt remains silent, pointing to the empty one on the table, "and we can go back to your place?"

An hour and a half later they're drunk, cuddled up on Kurt's couch, and Kurt is much more willing to resume the conversation they began in the restaurant.  He's buzzing and comfortable and Elliott's body feels wonderful against his.  

"It's not what you think it is," Elliott says.  He plays with the fringe on Kurt's collar absently. "I mean—it can be.  If you look hard enough you'll find all that stereotypical stuff—dungeons and full-body leather and people crawling around on leashes.  People who do it twenty-four-seven.  People who push their bodies to the limit.  And then there are people who just get spanked when the mood is right and never think about it outside of the scene.  And then there's everything in between.  What's great about it is that there's something for everyone.  Every kink, every fantasy, to every degree." His breath is warm against Kurt's temple. "I think that's what finally hooked me.  It's like music, like performance.  You can make it into whatever you want or need it to be, you know?  Expression and theatrics and letting go and attention, both giving and getting—I mean, trust is necessary, but once you find that, the only limits are the ones you set.  It's liberating."

Kurt's face is as red as Elliott's was in the restaurant. "Which are you?"

"What do you mean?"

"Giving or getting?" He knows it's the wrong question, but he's not sure of the right one.

Elliott laughs. "It's not like that.  But you're asking if I'm dominant or submissive?"

"Uh, yeah?"

"You are so fucking cute," Elliott says. "I'm mostly submissive. But I like to dabble."

"Really? You seem so—aggressive."

"That's kind of why.  It's nice to let go."

Kurt's belly twists.  This is a notion that never occurred to him before. His view of personalities and the needs they're associated with has always been dramatically black and white, he's beginning to realize. Too much high school concern over stereotypes has, perhaps, led him to pay an overabundance of attention to said stereotypes.

There is a significant pause, and then Elliott says, clearly delighted, "You're thinking about it."

"I am not!" He tries not to smile. "I'm just wondering when the heck you find the time.  I can barely manage classes, work, and my internship without questioning my longevity at least three times a day."

"Like I said, it's all about whatever works for you."

"Is this the part where you offer me a coupon to a BDSM country club and teach me the secret handshake?"

"You're thinking about it," Elliott says, smiling. "I know you.  I know when you're deflecting."

"It's just weird," Kurt says. "I always thought that stuff was just—out there, something other people I would never associate with did.  Knowing you do it is weird.  Not bad weird.  I'm not judging you.  Just—weird."

The next pause is longer, heavier.  

There has been, since Adam moved back to England and left Kurt bitter and lonely, a strange tension between Kurt and Elliott.  They've always joked that they would be horrible boyfriends—neither is the other's type by a long shot—but the intimacy that has existed between them since the beginning of their friendship has never been entirely platonic.  Kurt has guiltily masturbated more than once to the fantasy of them having sex, and he's sure that the reality would be just as satisfying.  

What he's not sure of is whether or not he'd be happy after the fact.  He can't imagine dating Elliott, but he also can't imagine things going back to normal after knowing him that way, and he doesn't want their friendship to change.  Elliott is the kind of friend who he imagines inviting to his wedding someday—and that is worth far more to him than a few orgasms.  Elliott is also one of the most level-headed and drama-free people he knows; Kurt strives to be more like that and so, all things considered, sleeping with Elliott is probably not going to help him reach that goal.

But he'd be a liar if he didn't admit how turned on he is right now. Maybe he should take Elliott's advice after all.

"I have some scene friends who I do dinner with regularly," Elliott says.  His tone is pitched soft and low, and Kurt knows that he's trying to be gently suggestive. "Come with.  Maybe you'll meet someone who can explain it better than I can." He smiles, nudging their shoulders together. "If you can find the time in your busy schedule for little old moi."

 

*

 

Kurt finds the time.  

He isn't sure how—and if he's being honest with himself, he's isn't sure why—but three weeks later on a Friday night he finds himself in Elliott's cramped studio on a couch surrounded by new faces with a plate of Ethiopian takeout on his lap and no clue why he thought these people would look or act differently than their other friends. Some of them are more unique in appearance, he supposes—dressed in ways that shock and impress even him, pierced or tattooed alarmingly, and still others look like the average college student.  And, aside from a few scene in-jokes that go right over Kurt's head, they're simply good company.

In the kitchen refilling his plate, Kurt manages to get Elliott alone.

"I want my money back," he says, spooning sauce over rice.

"Huh?"

"Your friends are too freaking normal and I haven't seen a single riding crop.  Not even as an accessory.  They are really missing out there, don't you think?"

Elliott laughs, drying his hands. "Talk to Aiden.  He's a sub, and he's new."

"Okay," Kurt says, and then tilts his head. "Why would you think I wanted to get advice from a sub?" The abbreviation feels awkward on his tongue, but he's trying to blend in.

The look Elliott gives him is as knowing as it is intense. "Babe." Elliott touches his arm. "You're wound up so tight I'm just waiting for you to shatter.  Losing Adam hit you hard, school and work are stressful, and I know hookups don't unlace your corset.  You need something." Elliott shrugs. "Someone, maybe?  To make relaxing okay, if you're having trouble getting there on your own."

Kurt's face goes hot.  Elliott isn't wrong.  His usual breakup coping methods aren't working—there are only so many facials, reality television show marathons, and pints of ice cream one can enjoy before one realizes they are not having the intended effect.  He has felt brittle and disconnected, not like himself at all.

"Alright," Kurt says. "I'll go see what Aiden has to say."

Aiden is a dark-skinned man who has been kneeling next to a woman who is clearly twice his age all night.  He's feisty and flamboyant, and he and Kurt immediately hit it off.  They talk for over an hour, sitting together at the end of a sofa with Aiden's dom's hand on Aiden's thigh.  Kurt finds himself asking questions he never thought he'd feel comfortable asking—what do you do, how often and where, and then the what if's and the but's, and Aiden and his dom answer each question with a showing of casual confidence that Kurt doesn't expect.

What he takes away from the evening is more or less what Elliott tried to tell him—that this lifestyle is what you make it, and when you find someone who can satisfy your needs and respect your boundaries, you'll figure out where you want to go and how fast or slow you want to get there.

Over the course of several dinners, Kurt talks to all of Elliott's friends.  Some of them are simply not what Kurt is looking for or comfortable with—others are close but not exactly it.  Between them all, Kurt learns a lot, and realizes yet again what he did when he started at NYADA and begun having sex—that, even in this, he's looking for intimacy.  There's nothing simple or detached about letting someone command you and place you and possibly bring you pleasurable pain and denial, and he can't imagine lowering his standards.  In fact, he might just have to raise them if he's ever going to find someone he can share that level of trust with.

Sadly, none of Elliott's unattached scene friends in New York seem to fit that bill.

Spring Break brings a handful of experiences—they spend a week in California, Elliott introduces him to at least a dozen doms, and he allows them to walk him through all of the basics, and then some of the not-so-basics.  He has good chemistry with several of these men, and the things they do to him are eye-opening.  He has his first experience being tied up.  He learns what subspace feels like.  He learns how to kneel properly.  He figures out which toys and equipment he likes, and which scare the crap out of him.  He learns how to weave power play and sex, and where the lines have to bend to make the combination work.

But it's all sort of clinical, and leaves him empty.

 

*

 

After Spring Break—still feeling distant from the whole scene idea—Kurt throws himself back into school and Vogue.com.  He's disappointed to learn that his vocal professor is on medical leave for the semester—she was in a car accident while visiting her family in Texas over the break.  He makes a note to chip in to the money they're pooling to send something to the hospital from the class. He's glad that she's recovering and no one else was hurt.

Another one of the NYADA professors covers for the week it takes to find a more long term adjunct.  Kurt worries—feels selfish, but hey, it  _is_  his very expensive education and the foundation of his future career—because he clicked with Professor Dupoe in a way he never clicked with a vocal teacher before.  She understood his talent and knew how to push him.  He finds it unlikely that any adjunct will be able to fill her shoes.

All thoughts of shoes fly out of the window the moment that Professor Blaine Anderson walks into the classroom and introduces himself. He's wearing a suit whose blazer alone would cost Kurt several months of pay, his thick hair is styled flawlessly, and that smile could inspire world peace.  He's classically handsome, but it isn't that that makes Kurt's pulse quicken—there's just something about his perfect posture and effortless charm that comes ahead of him, demanding attention, affection, and respect.  He's obviously very at home in front of a captive audience, and Kurt is not ashamed to admit he himself is part of that crowd.

"Sweet lord, he's cute," Kurt's friend Andrea whispers against his ear.

He swats her arm. "Do you need me to hold you back?"

Professor Anderson smiles at Kurt with an under-the-eyelashes glance.  He must have heard what Andrea said.

"Honey," she says, smirking, "I think it's gonna be the other way around."

He intends to make a joke about forgetting his gaydar at home that morning when Professor Anderson calls the class to order in song, and Kurt has to suppress a squeak of delight instead.

When Kurt tells Elliott about Professor Anderson, Elliott replies, "Oh, man, I  _love_  that guy.  He subbed one of my classes when my professor was out with pneumonia."

"He's almost too good to be true," Kurt says.  They're preparing for one of their "scene dinners" and Elliot has promised him something special, but he hasn't been able to shut up about Professor Anderson for long enough to discuss the evening's agenda. "I mean, we haven't spoken one on one yet, but..."

"He has this amazing talent for singling out students who need it—whether they're struggling or specifically talented or otherwise.  It was amazing, watching him draw people out of their shells.  A great semester.  No one wanted him to leave."

"Why isn't he a full time professor?"

"He was, apparently.  But he loved performing too much." Elliott puts out plates and silverware. "I guess he manages to do both now."

Kurt stops and stares at the table. "Only four?"

"So," Elliott says, sitting down. "I was wondering if you would be okay observing a scene."

This is something they have never done.

"Oh." Kurt blinks.  Sits. "Like—you and someone else?"

"I invited Andrea, and the other—yeah, a friend who doms me from time to time.  Nothing sexual, just—well.  Some restraint.  And spanking.  You don't have to.  You can just hang out here with Andrea.  I just thought I'd offer."

Kurt licks his lips.  The kitchen is suddenly and unbearably warm. "Okay."

"Are you sure?"

A nagging, unnameable want rises up in him. "I'm—yeah.  I'd like to see."

He hasn't done anything scene-related since Spring Break, and a part of him that has atrophied since twitches to life at the possibility of jumping back in.

Andrea comes bearing tamales and beer, and when the nondescript but acceptably good looking dom arrives and Elliott introduces him as Jorge, she muffles Kurt's slightly awkward greeting with her own special brand of enthusiasm.  They eat, but Elliott and Jorge don't eat heavily, and when the meal is over Elliott asks them to clean up while he and Jorge go to prepare.  It's all done as simply as suggesting dessert.

"You alright?" Andrea asks, when they're alone.

"It's—weird. Even now.  Especially now."

"You keep saying that."

"I keep meaning it."

"Just relax."

He tries to, but it's not without struggle, especially when he sees Elliott kneeling on the living room rug wearing a tank top, boxers, and a blindfold, with his arms tied behind his back.  Jorge is standing behind him, his sleeves rolled up and his shoes off.

"I'm going to spank Elliott through his underwear with the intent of putting him under," Jorge says, clearly and confidently. "Are you both comfortable with watching this?" They respond affirmatively. Jorge strokes his fingers through Elliott's messy hair. "Are you ready, hon?"

"Yes, sir."

Kurt's lips part.  

He ignores the heavy, wanton twitching under his skin and sits back on the couch.  He doesn't even feel Andrea's hand slide into his until Elliott bends forward and puts his cheek on the rug, presenting his ass as Jorge kneels beside him.  Kurt's fingers spasm around Andrea's, and he grips them tighter.  At the first impossibly loud smack, Kurt jolts.  Andrea holds onto his wrist.

Elliott doesn't whimper until the fifth or sixth slap.  Kurt watches, enthralled by the sight of Jorge's strong hand, wide and backed with dark, thick hair, come down again and again and again.  The noise echoes around the room—there's something undeniably primal about it.  Contact.  Reaction.  Elliott's body rocking away from the blow and then sinking back for more.  Kurt can see that he's erect, but that doesn't seem to matter much.

At around twenty strokes, Elliott gasps out, "Please.  Sir."

Kurt  _aches_. Remembers.

Jorge pauses, stroking Elliott's trembling buttocks.  Elliott is red from his forehead to his collarbone, and he's panting and squirming.

Kurt can't deny that he's having a reaction to Elliott's reaction.  He does find Elliott attractive, and rather than feeling overexposed or strange at seeing him like this, all Kurt can feel is desire.  A part of him imagines himself in Elliott's place—but that's a lot, almost too much for tonight (he thought he was over this already), and so more than anything he simply imagines being on his knees beside his friend, being allowed to touch him, kiss him, stroke him as Jorge continues to spank him.  To share and enhance his experience in some detached way.

Elliott slips under—his breathing evens out despite his body continuing to shake, his shoulders slumping and his leg muscles unclenching.  Jorge grips his biceps to keep him in place.

"That's it," Jorge whispers, squeezing Elliott's abused cheek with his free hand. "There we go."

Kurt bites his lip.

"Breathe," Andrea says, stroking his sweaty, warm palm.

"I can't," Kurt hisses.  He feels panicky and his ears are ringing.

"Kneel down between my feet?"

"W-what?"

"I can calm you down.  If you want."

Her face is pale and smooth, and her gaze locks onto his and remains steady.  Her demeanor is implacably still.  Kurt stares at her, bewildered.  He's never submitted to a woman before.

_There's a first time for everything._

He slides to the carpet without allowing himself to think about it, facing Elliott and Jorge and giving Andrea his back.  She cards her long, slender fingers through his hair and bends his neck forward, pushing until his chin is touching his chest.  His mind goes blissfully blank.  He breathes out around the unraveling knots of tension and panic, and when she begins timing her passes with Jorge's smacks, Kurt is finally able to breathe again.  He's still half-hard in his pants, but the associated urgency and self-consciousness float away.  It's like being intoxicated, only without the chemicals or loss of coherency—he is weightless and silent, sheltered from the feelings that are making him anxious.

"Better, honey?" she asks.

"Yeah," he whispers.

The drag of her short fingernails along his scalp feels so good that it's almost sexual—or would be, if he could see her that way.  But  _god_  if it isn't close.  He whines, spreading his thighs and leaning forward on his knees.  The world grows fuzzy and distant.

He comes to what must be a significant amount of time later, lying on his back on the largest sofa in the living room.  Elliott is curled up in Jorge's lap on the armchair.  Andrea comes back into the living room with glasses of juice for him and Elliott.  Kurt doesn't realize how thirsty and glucose-deprived he is until he starts drinking.  The glass is empty in seconds.

She smiles and sits down beside him. "How do you feel?"

"Like I slept perfectly for eight hours.  That was incredible."

Andrea rubs his back. "You did great."

"We're not gonna be weird now, are we?" Kurt asks, smiling lopsidedly.

"I'm not if you're not." She smiles, roll her eyes, and pokes him.

 

*

 

The search for a more permanent, boyfriend type of dom is one that Kurt doesn't have much time for.  Not to mention that it lacks urgency—for Kurt, the desire to be dominated comes and goes.  There are times when he feels he doesn't need it at all.

And then there are times when he recalls what it was like to sink into that soft cushiony abyss, times when the memory of taking pain like a good boy and loving every second of it pushes him into hours-long fantasies that leave him hard as a rock in inappropriate places. There are times when he interacts with men that give him a dominant vibe and he  _wants_ , so badly that it hurts, so badly that he flirts as he never has before.  He doesn't want to be ordered around, really—he's just in love with the idea of being with someone strong-willed and confidant enough to guide him to that relaxed, open, wanting place that he seems to have trouble finding on his own.  It takes a lot to convince him to let his walls down, and maybe this is the missing puzzle piece; maybe he needs  _this_  sort of a man.

Or maybe he needs to work on his final vocal exam performance and tell his penis to shut up.

He finally makes the time to take advantage of Professor Anderson's office hours.  He isn't surprised when he finds Professor Anderson singing at his desk behind his laptop, a smile turning up the corners of his mouth.

"Mr. Hummel," he says, stopping, but not with any self-consciousness. "Come in." He stands. "Have a seat." When Kurt sits, his bag in his lap, Professor Anderson sits back down.

_Is this guy even real?_

"You wanted to talk about your final.  I noticed that you haven't made a selection yet.  You still have plenty of time, of course.  I know many of your fellow students have—but I don't want you to think you have to rush."

Kurt smiles.  He can never seem to stop smiling around Professor Anderson. It's true that he was cranky in the beginning, missing his old professor and touchy about how quickly Professor Anderson won the class over, but he eventually gave up the attempt to be pointlessly loyal to Professor Dupoe—Professor Anderson is a wonderful teacher, and deserves his respect.

"I find myself in this situation all the time," he says, letting the words come.  He doesn't often share and care with teachers, but he feels comfortable with Professor Anderson. "Stuck between a technically solid choice that suits my range and my abilities and a risky choice that challenges me and might benefit me more, if I can nail it.  Every time I tell myself I'm going to make the right choice and stick with that pattern for the next time—and every time I have the same problem." He laughs, rubbing his hands together nervously. "I just want to wow you." He blinks. "Wow my professors, I mean."

Blaine smiles, slow and easy, and maintains eye contact as he leans forward, putting his elbows on his desk.  Kurt instinctively shifts closer. "I have some suggestions, if you'd like to hear them."

"I would love to."

 

*

 

After that, Kurt takes advantage of Professor Anderson's office hours at least once a week.  

Four visits later Professor Anderson insists on being called Blaine, and Kurt breathes a sigh of relief, because he has been lapsing into thinking of his teacher as Blaine in his head and this will get him off the hook for any verbal lapses.  

His and Blaine's musical tastes are fairly different, but Blaine, naturally, has an excellent ear for both contemporary music, the classics, and Broadway, and always seems to suggest songs that Kurt immediately thinks would be amazing for the full length and breadth of his range.

They aren't that far apart in age—Blaine has earned success very young—and Kurt tries to tell himself that all of the little flirtatious gestures they exchange are okay because Blaine is only going to be his teacher temporarily.  The shared smiles in class. Blaine asking him for help with sheet music and arrangement.  The precious minute or two that Kurt has to spare after class, his heavy bag on his shoulder feeling light as a feather when Blaine stops to praise his contribution to the class that day.  The brief, light touches to his arms, his diaphragm, and his back to correct his singing posture.  The steady, soft-with-ridges tone of Blaine's voice right next to his ear, making him go smooth like a good piece of fabric under a steaming iron.

By the time that they approach finals, his vocal class is nothing short of a sexual experience for him.  Blaine fixates on him in a way that would only be noticeable if people knew how Kurt felt about him and how much time they've been spending together on campus.  Office hours and before and after class, and Thursday morning coffee where they "accidentally" run into each other at 10:15 sharp every single time.  They're alike—and then again, they're not.  The contrast is intoxicating.  By the end of class Kurt finds himself aching for more of Blaine, well beyond what he has craved with previous boyfriends.

 

*

 

He has a very bad week.

Adam leaves him a drunk voicemail that brings back every good and bad memory that Kurt has of him.  Kurt gets a low grade on a paper for a class that isn't Blaine's and argues with the teacher about it.  None of his friends are available for bitching to, and Rachel calls at the worst possible moment to tell him that she's landed an off-Broadway role.  They haven't been close for a long time—still, Kurt wants to be happy for her.  But he doesn't have it in him.  

On Friday morning, he's useless in vocal, and Blaine asks him to stay after.

Weeks of flirting-but-not weigh on him like rocks—he feels as if one more pebble-sized addition will crush what's left of his resolve to be and do the right thing, and maybe that tension comes across as anger or defiance, because Blaine is frowning.

"Are you okay?" he asks.

"I can't have an off day?" His tone is sharp.  He knows exactly how he sounds, and he lets it ride anyway.

Blaine's frown deepens. "You've been under-performing all week."

Kurt doesn't know what the coiling anxiety in his chest is going to result in until he feels his face grow hot and his muscles quiver.  He blurts, "It's none of your business, okay?"

A similarly irritated look contorts Blaine's usually gentle features. His lips thin into a fine line.  There is a sickening, deep pause, and then his shoulders lift, as if in decision.

"Sit down," he says.  It's just two words.  Two words uttered in a take-no-flack tone that makes Kurt's knees wobble.  When he hesitates, Blaine says, again, "Sit  _down_ , Kurt."

Kurt collapses into the chair behind him.  His heart defies gravity all the way up his throat, choking him, blotting his face red.

"Your performance in my class  _is_  my business," Blaine says, and his voice is soft, despite the firmness that buoys it. "If you need to straighten something personal out, I understand.  But leave it at that door.  Understood?"

Kurt's pulse hammers against his throat, so strong and fast that he knows it's visible.  In combination with the blush spilling down his neck and up his ears, he's perfectly aware of how obvious his reaction to Blaine's dressing down is.

"I—yeah. Yes." He swallows heavily. "Yes, sir."

It comes out on a whim.  It feels good.

It makes Blaine's pupils dilate.

Kurt inhales sharply.

"You—you may go," Blaine exhales.  His knuckles are white around the book he's clutching in his right hand.

Kurt barely makes it onto the subway, he's shaking so badly.  The experience stays with him all the way home.  In bed that night, he jerks off thinking about Blaine's voice, and when he comes it's because he lets himself moan "please, sir,  _please_ ," just before he lets go.  He can't bring himself to tell Elliott about it—he's a little embarrassed to be pushing moral boundaries with a teacher—but he does mention wanting to do a little more scene observation.

 

*

 

The results are mixed.  Elliott takes him to a club that's about his pace, but he has trouble connecting to the various scenes on display. He enjoys being with Elliott while a dom works him over, and even enjoys the tail end of the evening when Elliott takes a turn tying a hot guy up with a beautifully intricate knot pattern, but the music is awful and the smell of sweat and leather and oil makes his skin twitch, like the combined result is seeping into his pores.

This is just not him.  It's never going to be.  

There's something missing.

Elliott doesn't want to give up on him.

"I've always had high standards," Kurt says, trying to reassure him, "don't take it personally."

But in the privacy of his bedroom he puts a pillow over his eyes to darken the room completely and jerks off imagining a body on top of his, pinning him down, bruising his arms and biting his neck and hissing encouragement in his ear, and he doesn't know how to explain to Elliott in a way that won't expose all of the most vulnerable parts of himself that he needs someone who will love him so hard that he'll need time to recover—that he needs someone's everything, all of their focus, all of their steely wonderment, all of their passion. He doesn't want to settle for cheap kinky tricks any more than he wants to settle for meaningless one night stands—he went through that phase, that semester in freshman year when he thought he needed to mess around freely in order to be like other people his age, and he learned all too quickly that no, he certainly did not.  Trying to be a "normal" college student—both in and out of the bedroom—never did him any personal good.

 

*

 

"Alright—you win, Kurt Hummel," Elliott says, one night when it's just the two of them watching old movies.  Kurt is giving himself a pedicure and Elliott is making notes on sheet music.  It's homey and nice and Kurt is glad that he convinced Elliott to stay in.

"Naturally," Kurt says, and then pauses. "Wait, what do I win this time?"

"There have been so many times."

"Truth."

"I'm giving up on clubs for now—I'll find more, but you've exhausted my current resources."

Kurt smiles.  He switches to the next toe, wiggling the dry ones on his opposite foot. "I needed a break.  Sorry.  It's just—I dunno. I haven't found the right person yet."

"I get it," Elliott says. "Hey, maybe you'll meet someone at my end of the semester bash, huh?  The guest list is growing, like, way beyond my control.  Alfonse is shooting in Milan and his roommates are moving back home for the summer, so we can use his place.  We just have to leave it the way we find it."

"Oh, that loft is huge, that's awesome."

Kurt is looking forward to kinder work shifts and downtime when he isn't at his summer internship more than he is parties, but he does like meeting new people before breaks; it always makes the time off more interesting when he has new people around.  He just has to get through finals first.  He excels in many things, but some of his core classes are boring as hell and he has to power through them to do passably well.

 

*

 

The day of his final vocal performance, Kurt is surprised and ecstatic when he walks into the round room early in the day to scope out the equipment and finds not only Blaine but Professor Dupoe talking near the piano.

"Kurt!" Professor Dupoe says. "It's so good to see you.  Thank you for the care package.  Those moisturizers saved my skin from the horrors of recycled hospital air a thousand times over."

Hugging her and grinning ear to ear, he laughs. "I'm glad.  How are you feeling?  It's so good to see you."

"Very well, thank you.  Preparing for the summer workshop.  Blaine has been good enough to offer to assist while I'm still a bit wobbly."

Blaine smiles, ducks his face. "I just want to help so that come the fall you can rule with an iron fist again."

Kurt stares at Blaine over Professor Dupoe's gray head. "So Friday is your last day, huh?"

"Sadly yes," Blaine says, staring into Kurt's eyes.  His tone is sad, but still edged with the brightness of his usual positive attitude. "I can't wait to hear you perform today."

"I second that," Professor Dupoe says.

Kurt originally intended to go with something classic and firmly in his wheelhouse—something from Phantom or Funny Girl or Wicked or Rent—but Blaine had suggested  _Not the Boy Next Door_  from The Boy from Oz, and even though Kurt wasn't sure about his ability to pull it off, rehearsals surprised him—the song felt good, the moves felt right, and he's excited to be performing it.

He and Blaine walk silently together after Professor Dupoe leaves them, and the amount of times that Blaine looks away when Kurt looks at him and vice versa is almost laughable.  Kurt smiles, his face turned down and warm, when Blaine nudges their elbows together.

"You ready?"

"I think so," Kurt says.

When Kurt's name is called later that day, he panics for duration of the four seconds it takes him to walk from his seat in the audience to the spotlight.  And then the room goes silent—dozens of pairs of eyes train on him—and the musicians sit up straighter behind him, their instruments poised, and everything just falls into place. There is nothing about this that isn't him, that isn't exactly what he wants out of a life on stage in front of a captive audience.

He takes one, indulgent glance at Blaine, who is smiling but no differently than he would at any other student, and feels—grounded.

He opens his mouth and the music swells behind him and he sings.

Performance is a bit like subspace—he sinks into the words and the sounds he produces like disappearing into a fog, only he isn't lost at all.  He knows exactly where, who, and what he is, and he lets all of the desires he's been sidelining and struggling to understand come with him, bracket him like friendly companions as the lyrics flow. There's still so much he doesn't understand—still so much he wants, still so much left to do—but here, he is himself.

The choreography is joyful and erotic and self-assuming.  It makes him feel powerful, every time an audience member's expression shows surprise, every time someone's smile twitches unconsciously wider. This is a subdued audience by default and necessity, but he can tell when they are favorably impressed, and this is one of those times.

When he comes to a halt on his knees with his body thrown back and his belly heaving between his ribs, he thinks he can feel the room vibrate, the applause is that eager.

"Bravo, Mr. Hummel," the director says. "Thank you."

He doesn't look at Blaine, not even after he takes his seat.  He doesn't think he would be able to do that and not fall apart, not laugh or cry or open his begging arms hoping Blaine would fall into them. This is neither the time nor the place to tell Blaine just how vital he has been to Kurt this semester.  So Kurt waits.  He waits until the performances are done, waits for the closing comments by the professors and the director to be delivered, and only when the room begins to empty does he allow himself to turn and search the crowd for Blaine's face.

He doesn't find it, so he goes out into the lobby outside of the round room, trying to subtly avoid eye contact with others who clearly want to talk to him.

He finds Blaine by the windows, one hand on the glass and his body turned away from the crowd.  The space between them feels like miles, and the people filling it like a human net designed to keep them apart.  Kurt presses through, his heart racing and his skin growing cold and clammy where the cooler air is running over his damp skin.

"Blaine?" he asks, and is embarrassed when his voice cracks.

Blaine stiffens.  Turns.  His eyes are red-rimmed, and when his long, lush eyelashes flutter over the beautifully fractured green-tinged honey of his eyes, Kurt's throat contracts with longing.

"Sorry," Blaine says, quickly, brokenly. "I just—"

He could finish that sentence with anything.  Wanted some air.  Had to go to the bathroom.  Needed to take a call.  But he doesn't.  And that's when Kurt realizes Blaine feels for him, perhaps more than he should, perhaps in the same way that he cares for Blaine.  

"You were incredible," Blaine whispers, his eyes misting over. "I'm sorry.  I have to go."

And before Kurt can say a word, Blaine is gone.

 

*

 

Professor Dupoe finishes the semester, down to and including handing out grades (Kurt isn't surprised by the perfect score he's received on his final performance) and passing along a message from Blaine thanking the class for the opportunity to instruct them.  Kurt doesn't know what to do.  He and Blaine did not exchange numbers, and he's a bit lost. He's sure that they aren't done, that he has things he needs to say, at the very least, but where to begin?

Elliott distracts him that first weekend after classes are out and he's grateful—so grateful that when Elliott suggests a new club he goes along for the ride happily.  Elliott assures him that this one is different.  Kurt doubts that, but as long as there's a bar and attractive, intelligent men to chat with, he's willing to give it a chance.

The club has tasteful, midscale decor and is laid out in restaurant style, with semi-private booths and tables instead of the usual open affairs.  The alcohol is good and the food is even better, and for the first time Kurt thinks that Elliott may have succeeded in his quest.  

"I already know the dom I'm meeting," Elliott explains as they work through a tray of olives and warm bread. "But there are always unattached doms looking for the company of a sub.  There's a matching app—fill out the form and the event organizer will pair you up with someone." There's a tablet on the table, and Kurt takes it and begins tapping away with unsteady fingers. "It can be just like a date, if you want.  No pressure."

Kurt knows that there are men kneeling, prone, bent, and even restrained in the booths all around them, and knows that he doesn't want that—not here, not tonight, but dinner and drinks with a knowledgeable dom could always be the start of something.

He certainly needs  _something_. Even if it's just further education.

He ends up with a man about five years his senior—an average looking musical theater performer wearing an in-season suit and a sweet smile.  They take a booth that's open, and when Kurt's face shows relief the dom, who introduces himself as Jin, says, "Oh, god, me too.  I am not looking to hog tie you to a table just yet."

Kurt laughs.  His nerves unravel at that.

They have a lovely dinner and share equally lovely conversation.  Kurt knows instantly that they have little sexual chemistry, but Jin seems to take simple, selfless pleasure out of touching his hands and making him laugh and answering his numerous questions.

"This probably wasn't what you were looking for," Kurt says, when the conversation tapers off.

"Actually, you're wrong about that." Jin smiles.  Rolls ice around the inside of his glass and sits back. "I enjoy the company. Especially when the company is as beautiful and witty as you." His smile deepens. "You get bonus points for sarcasm and that Vivienne Westood vest." He shrugs. "I love being around engaging submissives.  It's so hard to find young men who understand that being a sub doesn't mean you have to be seen and not heard."

Kurt twists his champagne glass in circles. "I've met a lot of new people this year.  And all of them have assumed that I'm a sub.  I mean—I am.  But what is it about me that pings?"

Jin's slanted, shrewd brown eyes find his.  Kurt's cheeks flush hot at the appraisal.

"Please don't take this the wrong way—but your needs, they're like noise to someone who has trained themselves to listen.  You are so careful, even when you're enjoying yourself.  You are desperately looking for someone to let go with.  Not just because you're comfortable or turned on, but because only  _they_  can give you that permission.  It's not about someone piercing your armor; it's about trusting someone else enough to want to set it aside yourself."

Kurt turns his hand over beneath Jin's, allowing their palms to touch and their fingers to slot together.  He's trembling.  Jin squeezes his fingers and then flips their hands again, pressing Kurt's down against the tabletop.  He gently digs his fingernails into the inner slope of Kurt's wrists.  It hurts, briefly, and Kurt—Kurt loses the ability to breathe.

"Shh," Jin whispers. "Look at me." Kurt's eyes tick up from their joined hands. "Good boy."

"I—"

"Drink your champagne with your free hand."

Kurt drinks.  Shakes.  Has no idea why this is making his stomach swoop and his cock twitch and his face burn—he's done more intense things with doms.  

Jin repeats the press of his fingernails everywhere, from Kurt's wrist all the way up his broad palm and down the length of each of his fingers, pinching and pressing, pinching and pressing.  He leaves visible, red half-crescent marks in his wake.  

"Would you like me to close the curtain?" Jin asks.

"Yes," Kurt gasps.

With a twitch of Jin's free hand they're shrouded in candlelight and most of the noise of the room falls away.  It's as private as this booth can be, and Kurt relaxes into his arousal.

When he moves to refill his glass, Jin says, "No.  I don't want you intoxicated.  Okay?"

"Okay." Kurt can't stop staring at his marked up wrist and hand.

"If I move the table aside, would you kneel and put your head in my lap?" Jin asks. "Nothing sexual, of course."

There are kneeling cushions beside the table.  Kurt looks at them and then at Jin.  He's feeling flutters of unease, and even though he did not intend to kneel when he came here tonight, he might need to at this point.  So he goes down on his knees on a plush blue pillow and puts his cheek on Jin's hard thigh.

Jin pets his hair, at the back where he can't mess up the styling. "There we go.  Is that better?"

"Yes—um. What should I call you?"

"Jin is fine.  We barely know each other."

Kurt smiles. "Yes, Jin."

They talk more openly after that—Jin asking him what he's looking for and advising him as to where he might hope to find it.  As it turns out, places like this club are always good for meeting new people, but there are websites that make finding someone who is looking for exactly what you are more streamlined and initially anonymous, and there are also several university-based groups that specialize in hosting safe scenes for people closer to his own age.

Kurt learns a lot, and by the end of the evening he's putty with his cheek nuzzled high on Jin's lap, completely comfortable and borderline floating.

"You are doing so well," Jin says, scraping friendly fingernails up and down the back of Kurt's neck. "I can't believe someone hasn't snatched you up yet."

Kurt shivers.  The idea of being desirable to someone in that way frightens him a little—both because he wants it and because he feels for some reason that he shouldn't.  Shouldn't want to be chosen or had or taken because he isn't that stereotype, he isn't—and the thought dies, because he has no idea what he even means by that. What's wrong with being chosen or had or taken if it's a path you choose for yourself?

He burrows his cheek against Jin's crotch.  Jin is not aroused and Kurt is not trying to make him become so; he just wants to be closer.

"Would you like to sit on my lap?" Jin asks.

"Oh. Oh, yeah."

He's awkward about eye contact as their bodies touch, but Jin just gathers him up and he puts his face in Jin's neck, which smells of deliciously expensive cologne, and breathes.  The breathing helps. Within minutes he's calm again, having his back stroked and the warmth of another man seeping into his bones.  He floats, bobbing to the rhythm of Jin's touch.

"Kurt," Jin says, "our time is almost up.  Can you come back for me? Here.  Take a sip of water."

Kurt's mind sharpens with every cool swallow, and by the time he's fully alert he has to pee and Jin is smiling fondly at him.

"Thank you," he says.

"It was my pleasure, I assure you." They shift slowly apart, smoothing their clothing and reconnecting with the world outside of the bubble they've created.

Kurt feels wonderfully drained.  He exchanges numbers as well as several long hugs with Jin, and then finds Elliott near the front doors—looking rather happily zoned out himself.

"That was incredible," he says, touching the fading marks on his right hand. "You win."

Elliott loops an arm around his shoulder and guides him outside. "You are not going to believe who I just saw at table five."

Kurt is still fuzzy enough to not react instantly, but when Elliott says, "Blaine Anderson, in the flesh, holy shit," he stops, sidesteps, and almost walks right into a crowd of oncoming hipsters.

"What?" he barks, grabbing Elliott's arm.

"None other.  He was eating dessert with a gorgeous guy—blonde, rock hard, vacant stare, you know the type."

"Is—was— _what_?"

Elliott laughs. "Oh, boy.  You got it bad."

"He's my—"

"He was 'your'.  Now he's just some guy."

"Bite your tongue.  He could never be just some guy."

"Bad. Bad, bad,  _bad_." Elliott gets them walking again. "Come on, you never exchanged flirty texts?  Never let him buy you coffee?  Never stayed after class just to sing to him and then ask for critique— _oh, be ruthless, Professor, I can take it_?"

"We never swapped numbers," Kurt says, and then adds, "Okay, we did—some of that, though." He hesitates. "And after my final he complimented me and then kind of ran away."

"Wait, hold up," Elliott says, tugging them off a corner to get into cab hailing range. "You never told me!  What did you do?  Did you give chase?"

"I stood there like an idiot with my jaw hanging.  I just— _ugh_."

"Christ on a cracker, you need to go straddle that.  He is seriously hot and apparently into the scene and—damn, child, I thought I taught you better."

"What if he's a sub?"

"He was wearing the black lapel pin that the venue uses to label doms."

Kurt looks down at the white pin on his own lapel. "Crap."

He thinks about this, forces himself to conceptualize it, Blaine back there with someone, Blaine maybe doing to that man something like Jin did to Kurt, or maybe even  _more_ , maybe—and his mind spins images of a man between Blaine's thighs, or bent over Blaine's lap, or tied up with his hands and ass in the air, and—

"Crap, crap, crap," he hisses, even as Elliott shoves him into a cab.

"We'll go back next week," Elliott says. "Maybe he's a regular."

"And what the heck am I going to do?  Walk up to him and say 'hey thanks for that grade it's going to look great on my transcript wanna make me kneel for you...it'll be like celebrating!'?"

"That needs some work—but yeah, I guess?"

Kurt groans. "I really liked that place.  And now I can't go back. Ever."

"Oh, we're going back.  I am not letting you out of this one.  You like him.  You've liked him all semester and he likes you and there is no reason why—"

"Oh my god, I can't."

"You can.  Look, I'll come early, talk to the organizer.  I know one of them."

Kurt's heart races. "If he isn't a regular, I'm not—I don't want it to look like I'm stalking him."

"Okay, okay.  Stalker vibe equals no, check, got it."

 

*

 

Between work and his internship, Kurt almost forgets about his promise to attend the meet and mingle night at the club again—but then Elliott asks him what he's wearing and he's at the back of his closet in a heartbeat, ransacking his best items to put together an outfit that is both daring and classy.  If Blaine is there again tonight, and if there is any chance that they might end up at the same table... Kurt wants to look different than he ever has in class.  So he wears something that fits tighter than usual across his shoulders and his ass and thighs, with bold metallic accents and flirty lines, a wide lapel to show off the sub pin, and tops it off with a strip of leather around his neck and the faintest hint of eyeliner.

"Oh, wow," Elliott says, when they meet in front of the club. "You're looking the part."

"Is he—did you...?"

"He's here, yep.  Look.  You can request him, if you want.  Leave it up to him to agree to sit down with you."

"I do.  Want.  I'm just nervous."

"Well," Elliott says, threading an arm through his, "let's do this."

Kurt does breathing exercises right up until the moment he approaches the table.  He is confident that he can do this right, if Blaine can manage to sit still this time.  He's not going to propose—he just wants them to talk, really talk, as adults and as—whatever they are here, without having it tangled up with school.  

"Hello," he says, when he rounds the booth.

Blaine stops in the middle of a swallow of his cocktail, his lips pursed, and then slowly puts the thick-bottomed glass down.  His eyes sweep Kurt's body so quickly, so subtly, that it's hardly noticeable.  Kurt notices.

"Kurt," Blaine says—surprise and wonder and fear in so few letters.

"I want to—I saw you here, last week," Kurt says. "May I?" He puts his hand on the back of the free chair.

Blaine's throat works as he finishes swallowing.  He's wearing a purple button down with a black tie and dinner jacket.  There's a watch on his wrist that Kurt has never seen him wear before.  His hair is more strictly styled, but it's still high at the front the way it always is.  His eyes latch on to Kurt's and don't let go.

"I usually meet someone here," he says, licking his bottom lip.

Kurt's chest seizes with embarrassment. "Ah.  I'm sorry.  Maybe some other time?"

"The person I meet here is a friend.  His name is Sam.  I don't think he'd mind shifting tables while we talk." The powerful lines of his shoulders strain against his jacket as he rises to his feet to pull Kurt's chair out. "Please, sit.  Let me just send him a message to let him know."

"I don't want to inconvenience—"

"Please," Blaine says, and then his fingers are on the back of Kurt's hand and Kurt feels his knees wobble. "Sit."

Blaine is only away from the table long enough to send a text and whisper something in a waiter's ear.  Kurt flushes hot as the waiter brings a bottle of expensive champagne to the table.  He stares wide-eyed at the shiny black pin on Blaine's lapel as their flutes are filled.

"May I close the curtain?" Blaine asks.

"Please."

When they have privacy, Blaine smiles, and the smile reaches his eyes. "How is summer treating you?"

"Tonight is shaping up to be the highlight so far," Kurt says, smiling back. "You?"

"Uh, to be honest?  I've had better.  But—this is a pleasant surprise." He laughs under his breath, motioning between them. "A pleasant shock."

"I want you to know, I'm not an expert at this.  I only recently—you know what I mean."

Blaine's eyes flick down to the white button on Kurt's jacket like a starving man allowing himself to look at a suddenly apparent food source.  The calm charisma that he carried into the classroom reveals itself in a different way here—Kurt recognizes it as the way Blaine is when he's more himself, surrounded by people who understand this side of him.

"Do you like the club?" Blaine asks.

"So far, yes," Kurt says. "It's more my speed.  Actual conversation.  Privacy.  A little luxury.  The men who come here put effort into their appearances and interactions.  They don't just see subs as sex toys.  That matters to me.  I'm not—I don't want—"

Blaine inclines his head. "I understand." He smiles. "I'm a romantic at heart, too.  It's hard to find someone who likes to take it slow when you're engaging in—off the beaten path activities."

Kurt's pulse flutters wildly against his throat.  He can't look away.  His naked hands on the tabletop feel lonely, and he has to resist the urge to reach out and take Blaine's hands in his.

"Why did you leave the way you did after my performance?" he asks, before he can check the thought.

Blaine swallows.  Takes a long, contemplative sip of his drink. "As it was, I let myself go far too often with you.  Seeing you shine in front of everyone the way you did—it moved me, Kurt.  So much.  And I was still your teacher.  I didn't want people to think your grade had anything to do with my personal feelings."

"We could have gone somewhere private," Kurt says, "talked, without an audience..."

Blaine's expression contorts. "Can I be honest?" Kurt nods. "I've been a little obsessed with you from the moment I laid eyes on you. I had a feeling we had a lot in common, and then when I found out through the grapevine that you dabbled in—this, it was almost too much, too close." His cheeks darken. "I started giving you commands in class, and you always rushed to obey me, and—it just built and built until I felt out of control of myself."

"Why?" Kurt asks, tilting his head. "What's so wrong about you and me?"

"The inappropriate relationship aspect aside and, of course, now not an issue… My career takes me all over the place.  I usually have trouble with relationships because of that." He flattens his hands on the table, so close to Kurt's that Kurt can feel them disturb the air. "I just got out of a relationship that ended badly.  I come with baggage and you're at such an exciting time of your life, and I just—didn't want to drag you into my drama."

Kurt has never met a man who was entirely settled and without baggage, especially not in this industry and city.  He doesn't expect perfection—he just expects the best that someone has to give him. He feels the potential with Blaine, to not only be taken care of in the way he needs to be as a sub but also loved wholeheartedly as a person.  He wants that, and has never felt the possibility so keenly before.  

Kurt remembers what Blaine told him about making choices—about finding the one that would allow you to move forward and learn without leaving you with unnecessary scars.

This is not the first time that Kurt will have to make the first move, but it's the first time that it feels like it being  _his_  choice truly matters.

He stands, and then carefully shifts the small table that sits between them aside.  He places a green pillow between Blaine's shiny dress shoes and sinks down to his knees on top of it.  He puts his hands on Blaine's knees and digs his fingertips in.

Blaine stares at him, wide-eyed and breathing rapidly.

"Teach me how to be yours," he says.

"Kurt," Blaine moans.  His right hand shakes as he raises it to hook a single fingertip behind Kurt's makeshift collar, right in front of his Adam's apple.  He tugs, bringing Kurt's cheek against his thigh. "God, you have no idea.  I—I don't want to hurt you.  I don't want to—"

"Let me introduce you to Elliott," Kurt says, rubbing his cheek against Blaine's slacks. "Spend some time with us.  With me.  I just want to get to know this side of you.  Please."

"Okay," Blaine says, stroking his cheek. "Okay."

The arrival of Blaine's friend Sam interrupts them momentarily—but Sam seems pleased to see Blaine with someone, and after a little more conversation Kurt and Blaine exchange contact information, and Kurt adds Elliott's as well so that Blaine and Elliott can talk independently of him.  Kurt can't imagine eating, can't imagine being with another dom tonight, and doesn't want to interrupt Sam and Blaine's dinner considering how long he put it off.  But he lingers there on his knees with Blaine's fingers moving over his shoulders until he feels like liquid, so far gone that he thinks letting go might cause him actual, physical distress.

"I can't leave you like this," Blaine says, cupping his chin and lifting it. "Promise me that you'll let your friend take you home and stay with you?"

It wouldn't be the first time Elliott has filled that role.  Kurt nods, hazy-eyed and vulnerable.  He doesn't want to leave, but knows that he has to.  Blaine is as affected as he is, and clinging to each other might not be a solution to that problem right now.

Blaine guides him outside into clearer air, one hand cupped underneath his elbow.

Elliott is there, cellphone in hand and concern written across his features.

"Thank you for being braver than I was," Blaine whispers to Kurt, and slips away.

Kurt whimpers.  He almost reaches out but Elliott is there, putting an arm around his waist and supporting him when he stumbles.

"Babe? Are you okay?"

"I'm—I need to be horizontal.  Please.  Come home with me?"

He doesn't speak again until he's wrapped in his favorite silk robe with a mug of decaf tea between his hands.  It's too warm a night for the drink, but he needs something and it's the first thing that Elliott suggested.  When the mug is drained enough to set aside, Elliott joins him on the couch, and he slides into Elliott's arms and between his legs without asking, snuggling close and relaxing when those long, strong arms circle his shoulders.

"Oh, honey, you are feeling it, aren't you?"

He can't stop shaking. "He is amazing.  I can't—I can't even—oh, my god."

Elliott squeezes him tighter. "I'm happy for you.  Now we just need to convince this dude that we're awesome."

Kurt laughs, overwhelmed.

 

*

 

Elliott's end of semester party is the first gathering that Blaine agrees to attend.  They've kept things fairly hands off—brief phone calls and even shorter texts that amount more to checking in on each other than conversation.  They are teasing glimpses of Blaine's everyday life and personality, and Kurt wants more.  But he supposes that's the point.

Blaine arrives that night, dashingly casual in skinny jeans, a red polo, and a bow tie, a bottle of wine in hand.  

"Hi," Kurt says, trying not to sound as if he has been counting down the days (hours, minutes) as he takes the offered bottle. "This way."

He, Blaine, and Elliott gather in the kitchen.  Their chatter is friendly and to the point.  It's early, too early for the party to start, but Blaine agreed to help set up, and Elliott is convinced that they should have some quiet time beforehand.  Together, they put the finishing touches on the music, the food, and the decor.  They pre-mix some simple pitcher drinks, which provides Kurt with ample opportunities to watch Blaine's hands work magic.

He's flustered before they even touch, and then in the kitchen Blaine's hand slides across his back for the first time and he bites his lip and has to work to make his lungs function.

Elliott winks at him and disappears into the main portion of the loft.

"You look gorgeous," Blaine says, as soon as they're alone, letting his right and join his left on Kurt's back.  

Kurt is wearing black jeans tucked into lace-up boots and a fitted, dark green Henley that makes his eyes pop—he wanted to be comfortable as well as wear something that could stand up to party spills.  He knows exactly how good he looks.  He always dresses to highlight his best assets.

His cheeks grow hot as Blaine's fingers slip up his spine. "You too."

Blaine leans in to whisper in his ear, "I love you in green."

Kurt tilts his cheek to allow Blaine's face to find a home against his jaw. "I'm glad."

Blaine pulls Kurt's body against his. "We aren't going to be alone for much longer."

Swimming in soupy warmth, Kurt lifts his chin, slides his hands up Blaine's bulging biceps and hooks a hold over his shoulders. "Is this—" He turns his head to look into Blaine's eyes and is shocked when what he encounters instead is Blaine's mouth gently pressing against his. He inhales surprise through his noise.

"Kurt," Blaine says, in between one kiss and the next, pausing long enough for Kurt to wrap his arms around Blaine's neck and kiss him back.

He walks Kurt backwards into a counter and presses Kurt into it, his hands falling to Kurt's hips, his fingers digging into the bones on either side as he takes control of the kiss, licking first at the seam of Kurt's mouth and then inside, lapping up the moan that crests in Kurt's throat.

It escalates so quickly that Kurt doesn't notice Blaine's thigh between his, Blaine's teeth nipping down his throat, until pleasure spills like ink through water in his groin.

"God, oh my  _god_ ," he exhales.

"Sorry," Blaine whispers, panting against his jaw. "Too fast."

"I'm okay," he says, unsure of how to communicate his desire for more without seeming blindly lust-driven.

Blaine's hands cup his face and draw him forward into a kinder kiss.  He nudges their noses and foreheads together, feels over Kurt's milky skin like a blind man experiencing a new lover.  He breathes, warm and minty, down Kurt's jaw, all the way to his ear.  He nips the lobe, and then takes it between his lips and sucks it.

"Oh," Kurt moans, arching his back.

"I want you to have fun tonight," Blaine says, right there against the flushed, seashell curve of his ear. "I want you to mingle and meet someone new and catch up with your friends." Kurt nods—shaky, eager, wanting. "But I don't want you to encourage another dom.  Even if we don't talk or touch.  Can you do that for me?"

Knowing that Blaine wants him for himself, even without actually  _taking_  him for himself, sends a shot of hunger through him that he can't even describe.

"Y-yes."

Blaine kisses up his temple. "Go help Elliott answer the door."

Losing the bracket of Blaine's arms, the heat and strength of his touch, is like being flash-frozen—but Kurt goes, buzzing, contentment rushing his blood, and all it takes is one look at Elliott and Elliott gives him a thumbs up.

"Let's get this party started, you lucky so-and-so."

Kurt isn't sure whether it's Blaine's presence or the end of the semester finally filtering through, but he hasn't had this much fun at a party in a long time.  He drinks, steadily but lightly, maintaining a comfortable buzz without getting too sloppy.  He does indeed meet new people and catch up with his friends.  No one present—not even the students who were in vocal with him—seem surprised to see Blaine there.  Perhaps they've made too big a deal of that aspect of things. Kurt doesn't mention their connection, of course, but he does whisper a hint to Andrea, whose eyes widen.  She congratulates him with an exaggerated wink.

He receives expressions of casual interest from several men—but he's careful to divert them as they come, constantly aware of Blaine watching him, observing his body language and facial expressions. There is no doubt that—for tonight, at least—Kurt is  _his_.

Being aware of this means that Kurt is never cool, never calm, not all the way—Blaine keeps him at a simmer all night without so much as the brush of a fingertip.  He feels cradled by that intensity, even at a distance, and finds himself falling in love with the sensation.

As the party winds down, Kurt and Elliott begin finishing off the almost-empty bottles.  They're fairly drunk as they say goodbye to their guests, and in the end it's just Kurt, Blaine, Elliott, and Andrea in the empty loft.  Elliott turns off the music.  Andrea tugs on his hand and motions to the couches.

"We're gonna crash here," Elliott says.

Blaine looks at Kurt, and Kurt looks at Blaine, and when Blaine walks slowly towards the partitioned bedroom area, his round, perfect ass twitching from side to side, Kurt follows like a puppy on a leash, his mouth flooding with saliva.

It's just a shame that he doesn't think he'll be able to do anything about that—he's drunk, and he knows he's going to fall asleep as soon as he's comfortable.  

They strip down to their underwear, shyly looking away from each other.

Blaine takes his hands and draws him onto the bed. "You were very good tonight."

"Thank you, sir," Kurt says, without thinking.

Blaine's cheeks flush. "Would you like to call me that?  You don't have to."

"I would, if you don't mind.  At least, most of the time.  When we're like this."

"Okay." Blaine smiles. "Let's get some sleep.  Do you have somewhere to be tomorrow, early in the day?"

"No. You?"

"No. So no need for alarms.  I just want you to rest.  Can I get you some water?"

Kurt is already rolling over onto his side, his eyes flickering shut. "Please.  Thank you, sir."

He wakes up only briefly to swallow half a glass of water.  He feels Blaine's lips on his cheek, and then the warmth and weight of a blanket draped over his shoulders.  

He doesn't consciously do anything in the night—but he dreams, and he isn't sure whether shifting backwards into Blaine is real or imagined until he wakes up in desperate need of the bathroom and feels Blaine's body spooned up behind his.  He shuffles out of bed reluctantly, urinates, washes his hands and face and even rinses his mouth, and then climbs back into bed, eager to resume the position he found himself in.  Blaine doesn't move to touch him, but doesn't move away from him, either.  He falls back asleep easily, a smile on his lips.

He wakes up again sometime before sunrise.  The room is dim but not pitch black, streaked and speckled with light from various electronics and a nightlight on the far wall.  

He's lying on his stomach.  Blaine's left leg is slung over his hips and their bodies are snug together.  Kurt flushes—his penis is edging towards the usual morning condition, spurred on by another body so close, and when Blaine smacks his lips and rocks sleepily against the curve of his ass, he has to force himself to breathe to prevent his pulse from thumping crazily.  He loses track of how long he lies there, feeling Blaine rut against his buttock and hip.  

Blaine is most definitely asleep.  Kurt certainly can't blame him, and would wake him if he were uncomfortable with it, but this—

Innocently playing an object for Blaine to use for pleasure, it's thrilling.  He doesn't want it to end, and he's almost certain it would if Blaine woke up.

And then Blaine's hand finds his beneath the blankets.  

Sleep-warm sloth makes every brush of skin against skin, every movement, feel slow, dream-like, calculated.  Kurt's heart is pounding.  Blaine gently presses his arm up, into cooler air, above his head and into his pillow.  He stretches their bodies out together, hitches his leg farther over Kurt's ass and pointedly, carefully pushes Kurt's pelvis into the mattress.

The reality of that, of it actually happening, sends adrenaline rushing through Kurt's veins.

"Morning," Blaine whispers, husky and wanton.

"M-morning-g— _oh_."

"How long would you have let me do that?"

"You've been doing it for at least twenty minutes now."

"That explains," Blaine says, kissing a path down the back of Kurt's neck, breathing warm over his skin, leaving goosebumps in his wake, "how close I am." His hips rock harder, drawing a noise from Kurt's throat. "Is this okay?"

"Yes, sir—please."

"Please what?" Blaine places little kisses along the ridge of Kurt's flushed ear.  He rolls farther left, straddling Kurt's ass lightly, lines up their bodies and drives the shaft of his boxer brief clad cock against the crack of Kurt's ass.  Kurt's boxers inch down a little, enough to expose the heat of his sacrum to the air.  He bites his lip and lets his face find a cooler spot on the pillow.

"Don't stop," he says.

"That's all you want?" Blaine asks, and Kurt can hear the teasing smile. He kisses across Kurt's left shoulder, and then all the way back to his right, stopping to lick at the light sheen of sweat between his shoulder blades.  Blaine's chest is smooth and warm and hard against his back.

"Wh-what do you want?" Kurt asks, clinging to his pillow as Blaine's thick cock slides up and down between his clothed cheeks.

And then his train of thought derails entirely when Blaine pins his other arm above his head and straddles him fully, writhing down into him.

"I want to come all over your beautiful back," Blaine says, biting the nape of his neck. "Can you stay still for me?"

"Please, oh, god,  _yes_ , please, I—"

He lies there in a cocoon of their combined body heat, half-holding his breath as Blaine fucks against his ass and back.  The bed shakes gently, just enough to tip Kurt's world into dizziness.  He can't speak, can't stop drawing sips of nervous, aroused breath—and then he feels Blaine relocate one hand from his arm to Blaine's own cock, and he lies there feeling the graze of hot, steely flesh as Blaine jacks himself just above the line of his spine.

"That's it," Blaine whispers, shaky, close, and Kurt is so hard that he imagines fucking down against the mattress and coming.  But he doesn't.  And then Blaine whimpers, just once, and he feels wet splatter up his back, as high as the dip between his shoulder blades. His body throbs, his eyelashes flutter, and his cock aches.

Blaine rubs some of the mess into his skin with the head of his cock, murmuring nonsense and praise while he lies there, overheating and overwhelmed.

"Perfect," Blaine says, kissing into the hair at the back of his head. "So good for me." When Kurt's pelvis writhes unconsciously, Blaine smiles against his shoulder. "Not yet, honey.  Let's clean you up."

Blaine has wet wipes in his pants pocket.  He retrieves them and cleans Kurt from his neck to the top of his ass, and then carefully rearranges his underwear.  Kurt is warm and comfortable, the urgency of his erection fading under the glow of care.

"Are you okay?  Can you sit up and talk to me?"

"Mm," Kurt hums, and rolls over. "I'm good.  Sorry—that was really nice."

Blaine thumbs his cheekbone, where he can feel a pillow crease.  He ducks his cheek farther into Blaine's palm. "Thank you.  I had a lovely time last night." He kisses Kurt's right dimple with a teasing smile. "And this morning."

Kurt's cheeks darken. "Me too."

After a long, sleepy pause, during which Kurt can hear someone using the bathroom, Blaine squeezes the inside of his thigh. "I don't want you to come yet.  Is that alright?"

"That's—yeah. I can do that."

They go back to sleep, close but not cuddled, and are dead to the world until the luxurious hour of ten o'clock.

After they wake up, Kurt tries to be cool about everything, and feels that he's managing—until he's in the kitchen fixing them coffee and cobbling together leftovers from the party into a rough approximation of breakfast.  His hands are shaking too badly to accomplish much of anything.  He's thinking that he wishes he brought a change of clothes—in all the rush to impress Blaine he forgot his overnight bag, and that only proves how head over heels he is.

Blaine comes up behind him, kisses his jaw, and says, "Let me.  How do you take your coffee?"

They have a decently arranged spread by the time Andrea and Elliott join them.  There's no teasing about Kurt and Blaine's new, open intimacy—just smiles and hungover imbibing of coffee and fruit, until they all look and feel more human.

"I'm going to stay and clean," Elliott announces, when they're through. "Don't even bother offering.  I need to clear my head and y'all have better things to do.  Go on."

Kurt and Blaine stop in the small entryway to the apartment building, exchanging heavy looks until Blaine threads their fingers together and kisses the backs of Kurt's knuckles.

"You're so sweet like this," he says, looking amused. "I can't decide whether I like you better with your claws in or out."

Kurt laughs, leaning closer to Blaine. "I'd like to think both states are equally impressive."

"I have something I've got to do tonight," Blaine says, "but I'll let you know what my schedule looks like this week.  I'd love to take you to dinner." Kurt almost forgets the specific nature of their interaction, feels as of this is just a normal date being planned, until Blaine kisses the hollow beneath his jaw and adds, "And I don't want to make you wait too long, sweetheart."

Kurt shivers, turning his warm cheek against Blaine's temple. "Okay."

 

*

 

It's like torture, letting go, at first.  But the sense of connection dims with time, and by the end of the weekend Kurt has fallen back into his usual routine—preparing documents and drawings for his internship, doing laundry so that he has clean work clothes, straightening his apartment, picking up groceries in order to ensure that he brown bags it and doesn't waste money on fifteen dollar sandwiches and five dollar coffees all week.  He texts his friends, and leaves a voice mail for his dad, who doesn't pick up his call.

He doesn't get a text from Blaine until Monday, and when he does it's schedule talk.  They make a date for Thursday evening, which is the first night they are both available this week.  

On Tuesday, he receives another text—Blaine asks him what he's wearing with a little winking face.  Kurt takes a selfie, and then revels in the warm thrill that Blaine's return compliment gives him.  It's like that all week, mostly Blaine asking questions or complimenting him, and when they go more than a few waking hours without a text, Kurt feels strangely lost.  

Being earnestly smitten feels good.

 

*

 

He has a bad morning on Wednesday—a customer at the coffee shop did not get his latte exactly as he wanted it and hissed a homophobic slur under his breath.  Kurt spent his break hiding in the men's room, feeling like shit.  He has a cocktail with his dinner, and calls Blaine before bed only because his inhibitions are lowered and he's feeling incredibly needy.

"I know how you feel," Blaine says. "You never expect it here—until it happens."

"I just need to—can you stay on the line?  I'm going to turn some music on and get in bed."

"Of course, honey."

He falls asleep to Blaine singing softly in his ear.

 

*

 

"So when you said we were going to dinner..." Kurt stops, looking around Blaine's small but tidy, upscale kitchen.

"Sorry," Blaine says, smiling. "Were you expecting a hard-won, last minute reservation at a four star restaurant?" His sleeves are rolled up over slim, strong forearms, loose pants are riding low on his hips, and Kurt's tongue feels like a slab of chalk in his mouth.

"Maybe?" he asks, stepping neatly along the edge of the kitchen counter.

Blaine reaches out, cradles his waist in one hand, and kisses his lips. "I wanted to cook for you.  I wanted you to myself." He tilts his head. "You're always more relaxed in private settings."

"I am," Kurt admits. "I've had a lot of really bad dates in restaurants, to be honest."

"I hear that," Blaine says, smiling. "I poured you a drink. It's on the table with some starters—go sit down for me?  The soup is ready."

Kurt doesn't know where to begin wrapping his mind around all of this—it's the realization of his perfect date fantasy.  A home cooked meal, a gorgeous, slightly older man in dressy but domestic clothes, a perfectly mixed drink sitting on a cocktail napkin that matches the table.  

Butternut squash soup dressed with diced apples and roasted pumpkin seeds is followed by beef tenderloin and mashed root vegetables.  

They engage in light conversation that allows the food and drink to be enjoyed at the same time.  When Blaine brings out a dessert of simple truffles dusted with powdered sugar and asks Kurt to feed him one, though, all of Kurt's simmering attention rolls over into a boil.

Blaine sucking the smooth confection from his fingers and then licking them clean is a sublime tease.  Kurt feels as if he's been waiting weeks instead of days for this.

Eyelashes fluttering over blown pupils, he lowers his hand and whispers, "You're killing me."

Blaine's mouth curls into a smile. "But only a little." He thumbs across the pulse hammering against the inside of Kurt's wrist. "I'd love to continue talking.  But you're distracted; I can tell."

Kurt shivers. "I wasn't sure what to expect tonight.  What I want keeps changing."

"Expectations are pretty useless when it comes to this kind of thing, because they're usually based on stereotypical assumptions." He laughs. "I'm not saying I don't have any and all of the usual equipment. I do.  You won't trip over it crossing the living room, but I do."

Flushing, Kurt inches closer. "How—how would you like me?"

"As you are," Blaine says, sliding his thumb down Kurt's forearm. His lips twitch. "But maybe—with less clothing." His voice becomes a purr. "Spread out across my bed." His fingertips shift sideways across Kurt's chest, down and around, and then all the way back up to where his nipples are hiding, beaded with excitement.  They graze a pebbled nub, making Kurt inhale sharply. "Hard.  Flushed.  Waiting for me.  Wondering.  Fantasizing."

"Blaine," Kurt whimpers.

"Do you have a safeword?" Blaine asks, gently pinching a peaked nipple through Kurt's shirt.

"N-no."

"Have you thought about one?"

"I—"

Blaine's fingers twist, twist, twist, and he can't respond. "Is this too much?"

Panting, Kurt shakes his head. "No, it's—grapefruit." Blaine's eyebrows rise. "My safeword.  For tonight.  Grapefruit."

"Grapefruit. Okay."

"I have an after dinner drink prepared for us, and then I want you to go into the living room and put on some music, okay?  Whatever you like."

Shaking, sweating, his nipples throbbing, Kurt nods.  He stares down at the tabletop, at the dark wood grain wobbling around the smear of his empty plate and off of the glint of his glass.  He composes himself, doesn't allow himself to look into the kitchen, just stands and does as Blaine asked, goes into the living room and scrolls through the iPod hooked up to the stereo.

He picks something unobtrusive, a Broadway score without too many spikes and booms.  Blaine gives him five full minutes alone, and by the time he's offered a small glass of dessert wine he's more or less calm again.  The wine helps to relax him.  He even manages to pull Blaine into a kiss without too much awkwardness.

Blaine chases the taste of wine around his mouth, and then there are fingers plucking his shirt open, smoothing over the bare skin beneath, finding the nipples that just received such thorough attention. Blaine kisses down his neck, across his collarbone, and drags a lush lick up and over Kurt's right nipple before sucking it into his mouth.

"Oh," Kurt moans.

He repeats the process on the left nipple and then back again before making a detour to Kurt's pecs, to his clavicle, to the upturn of his shoulder.  And then his shirt flutters down, and Blaine gathers it up and folds it neatly over the back of the nearest chair.

"If I do something you don't want me to, please tell me," Blaine says.

"O-of course."

Blaine kisses him again, and searches the quivering heave of his belly before tripping over his belt.  There's a beat of hesitation, and then that hot, broad palm is cupping him through his pants.  It's been over a week since his last orgasm, and the moment they connect he has to clamp down on the urge to rut forward frantically.

"You really didn't?" Blaine asks, kissing him, wet and quick and over and over.

"I didn't.  I want—I want you.  I want you to make me come." That last comes out strangled as Blaine's hand withdraws, leaving him tented at an odd angle, pulsing against his fly.

Blaine's lips suck warm, open-mouthed kisses against the hinge of his jaw, down the side of his neck, and then stop at the curve of his shoulder. "I've got you."

Trembling, Kurt reaches for the buttons on Blaine's shirt. "May I?"

"Go ahead."

Dim light makes a silhouette of Blaine's compact, tight body as Kurt carefully strips him of his shirt, then whimpers for permission at his belt buckle and receives a nod.  He sinks to his knees, needing to do it, to be closer, as he works the belt end free of the clasp, dislodges the tong and lets the end hang as he works the button free and the zipper open.  Blaine is fully erect, and Kurt lets out a slow, careful breath as he steps out of his socks and pants.

Kurt inches forward, allowing the tip of his nose and the spill of his breath to graze Blaine's straining erection.  The responding ripple across Blaine's belly brings a fresh flush to his face.  Unsure of what to do, he presses his cheek to the hardness.

Blaine exhales audibly, sliding his fingers into Kurt's hair, from the nape of his neck to the crown of his head.  On his next inhale, he says, "Pull my briefs down with your teeth."

Kurt tries to do it without fumbling, saliva pooling at the corners of his mouth as his throat heaves with rapid breathing.  It's harder to do than he thought it would be, and the fact that he can't suppress the whimpers that rise in his throat at executing the command doesn't help.

But he does it, finally, and Blaine's cock springs free, hot and heavy against his cheek, the thick shaft ending in crisp, dark, neatly trimmed pubic hair at its base.  He shakes harder—being close and waiting for Blaine's guidance is working at the fractures of his submissiveness, lengthening and widening them.  He is wildly desperate for another command.

"Undo your pants and push down your underwear," Blaine says.  Kurt stares up at him, beyond the curve of his beautiful cock, his soft belly, his tight chest, and his broad shoulders. "I don't want you rubbing off on them."

Kurt rushes to do so, feeling debauched and filthy as he spreads his knees on the carpet to let his balls hang freely.  The sudden disappearance of friction against his cock is torturous—he bites his lip and thrusts pointlessly into nothing.

Blaine's mouth curves upward. "You can wait a little longer, sweetheart. I bet that hurts, though, huh?" And without asking, he lifts one leg and runs the ball of his foot down the length of Kurt's cock.

"S-sir," Kurt gasps.

"Don't move.  Good boy."

The things that he does to Kurt's cock with just the arch of his foot is beyond anything Kurt has experienced before—it should be strange, but instead it's just shockingly erotic.  Kurt flushes hot down the back of his neck when he notices that he's left wet streaks behind, glossy tracks shimmering along the length of Blaine's foot.

"Mm, that's it," Blaine murmurs, petting his hair. "How are you feeling?"

"Shaky.  But good."

"I want to tie your hands behind your back.  May I?"

"F-for what?"

"When your mouth is full of my cock, I want its full attention.  No hands."

"Oh my god, okay."

"You don't have to say yes to everything I ask for.  Would you like it if I tied your hands?"

Kurt nods.

He isn't prepared for how it will feel, though, when Blaine slips a soft scarf around his wrists, for when the pull grows tight and his arms are drawn back and his shoulders lift up and his whole posture changes because it has to.  This makes him feel strong, but also contained.  He shivers, his whole body rolling with them—and then he hears Blaine open a condom packet.

He ducks his head.  He knows his face is doing something strange and wanting, and he feels exposed.  A little embarrassed.

Blaine bends to kiss his temple. "Hey.  Look at me." He bites his lip and looks up. "Your desire is beautiful." Blaine thumbs his bottom lip, edging the tip of a fingernail between it and its lower half.  "How badly you want my cock in your mouth right now—it makes me feel wonderful.  Don't be ashamed."

This cracks something inside of Kurt wide open.

"Please," he says, sucking at Blaine's thumb. "Please, I just want to—do that for you."

"I'm going to sit on the sofa," Blaine says, "can you walk on your knees for me?"

"Yes."

It's awkward, doing this with his hands tied behind his back, but he does it, and when he's completed the task he feels proud of himself.  

There's a throw pillow on the floor.  Blaine helps him to kneel up onto it before he sits down himself, his legs spreading wide.  He inches himself up towards the edge of the couch a little, but Kurt is tall and has a long torso, and bending over Blaine's thighs to reach his lap is easy.

"I was going to blindfold you," Blaine says, arching his hips.  His pelvis and thighs are so strong, so defined—drool puddles in Kurt's mouth.  Blaine's cock is so fat and long, and Kurt wants it in a gut-wrenching way that mimics physical hunger. "But I want to see your eyes—they're so expressive." When Kurt's eyes refuse to stop ticking to the jut of Blaine's erection, Blaine cups the back of his neck. "Are you okay with me pulling your hair?  Holding your head?" He exhales, scratching his nails over the top knob of Kurt's spine. "Fucking your mouth?"

"Yes," Kurt rasps, licking his lips.

"Show me your lips and tongue first, honey.  Want to feel them all over me."

Kurt whimpers, and then bends—and  _oh_ , the pull of the muscles in his shoulders and biceps because of the restraint on his wrists is so, so gorgeous—and wraps his lips around the head of Blaine's cock, situating it upwards so that he can drag his open mouth down the shaft.  

If he's being honest, he has never really been an Olympian when it comes to blowjobs.  He definitely has a gag reflex.  He isn't a fan of being choked.  But this has nothing to do with any of that, because tonight he wants to be pushed.  He wants to give Blaine everything that he can.  He wants more, more of this cock and more motion and more of those rare, beautiful noises of surprise from Blaine's throat.  He's in love with the silk-over-steel sensation of Blaine's cock and the salt-tang flavor of his skin.

And when he bends his neck and presses his head down and Blaine tugs his hair and pushes up to fill his mouth, he feels weightless and free and perfect—his mouth is Blaine's to use, Blaine's to adore, and that's the way he feels.  Adored and wanted and appreciated, as Blaine's gorgeous hips begin rolling, edging his big cock in and out of Kurt's mouth at an even clip.

"That's it," Blaine says, twisting his fingers, "just give me that mouth, god, so good, honey, so soft and wet, just like that.  Breathe through your nose.  Good boy.  Such a good boy."

He flattens his tongue, letting Blaine slide along its surface with every push and pull.  His mouth is stretched to its limit, aching at the corners and the back of his jaw as the minutes tick by.  Blaine is big, and it's been a while for Kurt, but that doesn't stop him from giving his all.  His chin is covered in spit and his upper lip in clear snot, but he doesn't care, not even when it gets in his mouth, not even when his eyes start to water and spill.

Blaine stops just before he comes, backs down to let Kurt breathe and relax his throat, but Kurt falls on him even during this lapse, licking and suckling and kissing, all the way down to Blaine's swollen balls.

" _Ah_ —ah, ah," Blaine gasps, lifting his ass when Kurt takes a ball into his mouth.  And then the other.  And then licks the sweat from the spot where Blaine's thigh and pelvis meet.

"Taste so good," Kurt murmurs, wishing for just one moment that he could lift Blaine's legs over his shoulders and bury his face in between those plush cheeks.

"Come up on my lap," Blaine says.  Kurt wriggles up onto the couch with the help of Blaine's legs and hands, fumbling, grasping for a hold on Blaine's shoulders as their mouths collide, hard and quick. Blaine's tongue licks into his mouth and he opens wide to take it and give back, whining, moaning, twisting as Blaine's naked body grinds against his half-clothed one.

"Let me make you come," he says, suckling down Blaine's beautiful throat.  At its base he dares to pull harder with his lips, leaving a dark red flush behind.

"God, yeah, yeah, come here." Blaine pushes Kurt's pants and underwear down around his knees.  Kurt worries about being pinned against Blaine's belly—he's so close that it wouldn't take much, and he doesn't want to come without permission—but Blaine lifts him higher on his knees, spits in his hand, wraps that hand around his own cock and guides it between Kurt's thighs. "Close up for me, honey." Kurt clamps his thighs around Blaine's cock, letting it slide into the groove of his thigh and groin, and Blaine begins to fuck the sweaty space, his fingertips digging painfully into Kurt's hips.

"Oh my god, oh my god, please," Kurt chants, holding on for dear life.  It's so rough and so good, and oh  _god_  he wants to be filthy with Blaine's mess, he wants to feel that cock throb and shoot, wants to dissolve into nothing but useful friction for this gorgeous man.

"Gonna come all over these pretty thighs," Blaine whispers, shaking, his hands sliding down to grip Kurt's naked ass.

"Don't, don't touch—don't touch me like that or I'll—"

His cock is already so close with almost no friction at all, and the nerve endings that begin to fire when Blaine strokes his ass only make the situation more dire.

"Want to be good, don't, Blaine, I can't," he chokes out.

One of Blaine's hands shifts from his ass to the base of his cock, circling it and his balls in a ruthless grip.  He squeezes, tight, forcing Kurt's orgasm back.

"Don't come," Blaine whispers, shaky because their bodies are rocking unevenly as he fucks between Kurt's thighs. "Don't come, don't come.  Arch your back.  Make me feel it.  Come on.  Make me come."

"Sir," Kurt sobs.  He has tears in his eyes.  He wants to be perfect, but he's never done this before.  He's frustrated and the friction isn't enough and Blaine's grip around his cock is uncomfortable because he needs to come so badly and Blaine won't let him oh god  _please_ —

Blaine catches on.  A moment later Kurt is being pushed down onto the couch on his back, his arms pinned beneath him, his legs in the air, and Blaine is spitting again, pushing back in between his thighs again, and—oh, god, oh  _god_.

Kurt watches, eyes wide, as Blaine's cock pistons between his legs, flushed dark and so heavy, curving up and to the left.  Blaine's hands furiously pet the backs of his thighs, and at the end of one pass, one of them breaks off to smack one of Kurt's cheeks.  The contact echoes off of the far wall, reverberating in Kurt's ears, and Kurt cries out.

"Okay?" Blaine asks.

Kurt's cock wobbles against his belly and  _oh fuck oh god_  he's going to come just from that in about thirty seconds if Blaine doesn't stop.

"Yes, but—can't—close—please!"

His legs are shoved apart and Blaine bends over him, taking both of their cocks in one hand.

Kurt cries out in shock and frustration, and only realizes when his shoulders hitch that he's actually crying, borderline weeping, overwhelmed and frightened of disobeying and wanting so badly to come and so much more than that that he can't even articulate what he needs.

He can only stare helplessly as Blaine's wide hand jacks their cocks together with almost too dry of a grip.  Blaine shifts his hand to catch more of Kurt's cock, twisting the head, pinching it, playing with the gaping slit until pain and pleasure become one and the same.

"Doing so well, oh god, you're doing so well, baby, I'm going to let you come, just relax, okay?" He kisses the jiggling curve of Kurt's calf. "Want you to come all over my cock.  Can you do that for me?"

"Sir, sir, yeah, yeah,  _yeah_ , oh, god, please, just—"

And then it's a flurry of sparks, Blaine's fingers pinching his nipples, slapping his ass, scraping red lines down his belly, match hisses in a darkness made of murky pleasure that guide Kurt from painful holding back to pleasurable falling apart, implosions that undo him, and then a world of humid aftershocks as Blaine pumps his sticky cock through each pulse.

Blaine kneels over his chest, panting, his eyes wild. "Open your mouth."

Kurt doesn't even open his eyes, he just lets his jaw drop, and before he can make a noise Blaine is holding the back of his neck and fucking into his mouth, edging into his throat, blotting out everything but the need to breathe through his nose and let his mouth be used.

Blunt, stabbing passes of pressure, making white dance behind his eyelids and panic flutter along his limbs.  Blaine fucks his mouth and throat without stopping—balls slapping Kurt's chin, fingers pulling Kurt's hair, latex sour on Kurt's tongue—and suddenly, all at once, he comes.  Kurt feels the shaft of his cock pulse, jump in the limited space that Kurt's mouth provides.  He makes the sweetest little squeaking moans when he comes, one for each lush jolt, until his balls are softening against Kurt's jaw and his cock shrinking in Kurt's mouth.  He sits back on Kurt's chest gingerly, his fingers still curled around Kurt's ears.

Kurt is crying again, silent tears streaking past his temples.  He isn't afraid or upset—he feels amazing—he's just so overwhelmed that his body doesn't know what else to do.

"Sir," he whimpers, "sir.  Sir."

"I'm here.  It's okay.  What do you need?"

"My—my arms are asleep."

"Okay. Okay.  One second."

Gently, almost reverently, Blaine unties his wrists and strokes blood back into his fingers and forearms.  There's a soft sheet stretched over the couch cushions—Kurt blushes, that Blaine thought ahead in such detail—and they cuddle up together there, Kurt folded into the circle of Blaine's legs and arms, allowing himself to be held, to tremble until he doesn't need to anymore, to be kissed everywhere that their position allows Blaine to reach.

As the fog lifts, Kurt finds himself drifting sideways into another kind of fuzziness—and how odd, to slip under after, but Blaine's hands are so gentle, such a contrast to the almost demanding, almost rough things they just did, and the difference is taking Kurt apart, asking him to fade a little.  He feels so safe, so at home.  It's okay to rest here.

Blaine arranges his arms and legs into a more comfortable shape, stroking his bare skin, lingering over the long lines of his torso and thighs, over the sharp cut of his ribs and collarbone and neck.

"Beautiful," he exhales, pressing kisses into Kurt's flesh.

Kurt is hard again for reasons that he can't explain, and when Blaine's hand kneads his thigh he feels his cock jump.

"Blaine," he says.  His pelvis shifts, sending his ass back against Blaine's soft cock.

"Oh, honey," Blaine says, wrapping his hand around Kurt's cock.

Kurt can't recall ever feeling this close to anyone.  

Blaine untangles his underwear, pants, socks, and shoes, shifting everything off and to the side, and then tugs him back snugly against his chest.

His vision is going fuzzy, but Blaine just strokes his body, smearing wayward, drying fluid over light sweat over warm skin.  And then his hand again, loose and slow, sliding up and down Kurt's cock, encouraging his hardness until he's standing full and proud again.

"If—if you—I'm—"

"I know," Blaine whispers, kissing his ear. "Want to make you come like this.  Even if you slip under.  Do you trust me?"

"Yes," Kurt says, spreading his thighs.

Blaine spits in his hand, replaces it, and cups Kurt's balls in the other, kneading them slowly. "Nice and slow, honey.  Want you to feel it." He pumps and pumps and pumps, until the head of Kurt's cock is wine red and throbbing.

After being taken apart and put to work for so long, this gentle undoing is yet another kind of almost too much—but Kurt is floating now, and the buffer is good, like mental lubrication.  He whines but has no complaint, letting his hips rise and fall with Blaine's hand, letting the warm support of Blaine's body carry him.  And when the fingers that Blaine has around his balls drift lower, all he can do is spread his legs wider.

"Mm," Blaine hums, sliding his fingers between Kurt's dry cheeks. "Is this where you want my hand, baby?"

Kurt turns his face into the underside of Blaine's jaw and moans. "That feels—so good."

Two fingertips settle into the depression and begin dialing circles. Kurt whimpers, feeling his body clench up greedily.  Blaine's thumb strokes his perineum, and his right hand speeds up on Kurt's cock.

"Do you want my fingers in you?" Blaine asks, nibbling Kurt's earlobe.

"We—we don't have—"

"But if we did."

"I've never—I mean, I've been—fucked.  But I've never had someone else f-finger me." He goes hot saying the words, feels his cock throb in Blaine's hand.

"Would you let me?" He strokes faster, suckles at the sensitive skin below Kurt's ear. "Let me push two slick fingers up inside of you, massage your prostate?  Make you come before you're ready, maybe, too hard and too fast, and keep on working it out of you even after you finish, god, your cock would look so pretty pulsing little clear spurts—"

"Oh my god," Kurt moans, thrusting upward.

"Not even hard, just flushed and overworked as I make you leak over and over again—"

"Blaine!"

Blaine presses four fingertips right up against Kurt's perineum and pushes, working hard, fast circles as his right hand flies. "That's it. I know you can come again."

Edging closer, Kurt sinks into the warmth of being held, of Blaine's arms and legs cupped around him, of Blaine's breath coming frantic and hot against his hair.  He feels as if he could say or do anything right now and it wouldn't matter—or it would matter just enough, maybe.

"I want to," he gasps, tumbling, tumbling, expanding. "Oh god please just a little harder, I'm—"

Silence, the concave suck of his belly between his ribs, Blaine's hand shush-shush-shushing over the head of his cock, and then the dig of a single fingertip into the indentation of his asshole and he's coming, almost entirely dry but no less intense for that, and Blaine is pressing his hole and stripping his cock and he's slipping, unraveling into strands in a yawning abyss.

He wakes up some time later, by himself, comfortably sprawled on his belly wearing a clean pair of Blaine's underwear and a tank top, and covered in a light blanket in Blaine's bed.  Blaine is sitting at a desk across the room wearing a robe and slippers, his hair wet from what Kurt assumes was a recent shower.  When Kurt sits up, Blaine turns away from his laptop.

"Hello, beautiful," he says, sitting down on the edge of the bed. "Thirsty?  Hungry?"

"Yeah," Kurt says.  His voice is scratchy and his body thoroughly worked over.

"I have cookies and milk.  Sound good?"

Kurt nods, and lets himself be led into the kitchen by one hand.  He eats two rich chocolate cookies with a glass of milk and then helps put the plates and cups into the dishwasher.

"Can I ask—you mentioned getting out of a relationship recently," he says.

Blaine folds his elbows on the breakfast bar and nods. "It was kind of an on-again off-again thing that I had going since my second year of college.  We were both in love with the idea of each other, and that persisted through a lot—career demands and family drama.  I think we just really wanted to be what the other needed and never quite managed it." He smiles. "We were both kind of...dominant. It made things difficult.  But it wasn't easy, letting go.  I have—a hard time, letting go, when I think something or someone is worth it."

"What was he like?"

"He was gorgeous.  Talented.  A dancer.  I loved him.  But I think—time made that love realistic.  And in the end I knew it just wasn't going to work out."

"You're kind of a sap," Kurt says, smiling.

"Guilty as charged." He touches Kurt's arms. "You are—very distracting in my clothes."

"In that case, I should probably go," Kurt says, looking at the clock on the microwave.  It's past two in the morning. "I don't have to be in until eleven, but I know you have work."

Blaine laces their fingers together. "Mm.  Don't want you to go.  Stay until morning?  I'll spring for breakfast.  You can walk with me to the subway."

"That  _is_  a tempting offer."

Kurt is thrilled—he wants to sleep next to Blaine, to roll over into him in the morning, to kiss him and watch him get dressed for work.  It takes a lot to get Kurt to abandon his routine, his bed, his personal space, and his toiletries; Blaine more than meets these requirements.

Blaine walks around the counter and takes him by his hips. "What'd you say?"

"I like the to sleep on the right side."

Blaine laughs. "Noted."

 

*

 

Breakfast is pastry and coffee while they walk, trying to touch each other and eat the same time, dodging fast-moving crowds and stealing one last quick kiss over the rail before Blaine disappears down the stairs to the subway.

Kurt floats through his morning routine, even as he gets the wink wink nudge nudge from several coworkers.  He doesn't bother to deny the lighthearted, teasing insinuations.  He meets up with Elliott for drinks after work and gives him the PG version of events—Kurt isn't a fan of kissing and telling, at least not in detail—and receives squeals and hugs and too many refills.

"I get friend points forever now, don't I?" Elliott asks, practically carrying him up the stairs to his apartment.

"F-forever-r-r," he drawls, clinging to Elliott. "You are my best friend."

Elliott gets him to bed, and then sits at the end. "Did he say why he didn't make a move?"

"The usual.  Baggage.  Crazy lifestyle.  He gets really attached, doesn't want to let go even when he knows he should.  Recent breakup."

"And what do you think?"

Kurt rolls onto his side.  The drunken feeling is loosening into a buzz. "I think I've dated guys who weren't worth it plenty of times. And even when I dated guys with perfect situations it never worked out.  And I think—he's worth it, even if it doesn't last.  I'm scared.  When I think about how easily I could  _need_  him and how quickly he could disappear—I'm, I'm terrified.  But I don't want to be alone.  And he makes me feel so many things.  Things I never thought I could feel.  Fuck, I pushed away so many guys before I— _shit_. I am not making any sense."

"You are so drunk."

Kurt laughs. "Yeah.  Don't quote me on any of this, okay?"

"Who needs quotes when there are recordings?" Elliott asks, waving his phone.

Kurt throws a pillow at his head.

 

*

 

"So tell me about your friend Sam."

"Oh, wow.  Um.  He's been a close friend since high school.  He's a model—but I think he wants to go back to school to become a teacher."

"Is he, um, a dom or a sub?"

Blaine laughs. "Geez.  No, neither.  He's not into the scene." A pause, and then, "But the woman he wants to date is a chef in the kitchen of that club.  So he asked me to play wingman a few times."

"Oh, okay." Kurt pauses. "So, wait.  You weren't actually there to meet someone?"

Blaine's cheeks darken. "I—did a little mingling.  I have to be honest, though—my exposure to the scene is generally through mutual friends and in private settings.  I like intimacy.  I like to have those experiences in relationships that would exist with or without them." His lips twitch. "In the beginning, there were a few, you know, performances opportunities.  I showed off.  Showed my sub off. Especially when I was learning.  But as I got deeper into it, it just wasn't the same unless I really bonded with the person I was dominating, and that always meant a relationship for me."

"Are you—I mean, have you ever just done things in small groups with friends?  Like, more than one couple?" Kurt asks, ducking his head.  

He's been wanting to bring this up but has yet to find a comfortable segue, and even now he wonders if it's too soon, if he's phrasing it the wrong way.  He loves one on one attention, but also loves sharing that experience with Elliott and Andrea—he loves their scene dinner parties, and mostly just wants to share one with Blaine to see if Blaine might like them, too.  Andrea has a sub now, and Kurt thinks it would be nice for all six of them to get together and share their experiences and mixed company, if nothing else.

"Sure." Blaine smiles. "Is this about Elliott's 'dinners'?"

"Damn. He told you?"

"I know that he has them.  And that you always go."

"I haven't—I mean, I've just watched, lately."

"Do you like watching?"

"Because it's them.  I trust them.  But yeah, I like watching.  Especially when they get into it and just sort of forget I'm there."

Blaine draws them up to an abandoned street corner. "Would you like me to come to a dinner?  And—be your dom?"

"Um. Yes.  If you want to."

Blaine's fingers trail down the back of his shoulder. "Hey." He leans in close and tucks his cheek against Kurt's neck. "What do you want me to do to you in front of your friends, baby?"

Kurt flushes hot.  He can't help a nervous glance around.  It's dark, they're alone, and he's learned that safety is not a guarantee, not even here. "I—want you to hurt me.  And I want to feel nothing but what you're doing to me."

"Let's talk about that," Blaine says, kissing over Kurt's hammering pulse.

Back at Blaine's apartment, Kurt lies down on his stomach with Blaine sitting on his lower back, rubbing his shoulders as he talks.

"There was this one time—I let Elliott hook me up with a dom in California.  I was so—I had trouble with intimacy.  With boundaries.  With connecting.  But I wanted it so badly.  Needed it. So he suggested—sensory deprivation.  And all I could do was wait. And feel what he was doing to me.  I didn't care who saw or even if we were alone, it just—let me let myself go."

"Is that what you want to do at this dinner?"

Kurt shudders.  Digs his pelvis into the bed and lets the shudders wrack his body.  Just talking about this has made him so hard, so desperate.

"All I can think about is that I didn't even care about that dom.  What would it feel like to do that with—with you?" He whimpers when Blaine's thighs clamp around his hips, holding him still. "With someone who makes me feel as amazing as you do just doing simple things?"

"We'll have to make a list, okay?  Of everything you're okay with and everything you aren't.  And once we agree—" He drags Kurt's arms down, pins them at his sides, and bites the nape of his neck hard enough to leave marks behind. "I will take such good care of you, baby."

Kurt's back arches as the pain translates into pleasure all the way to his cock.

 

*

 

Anticipation builds as the days pass.  They don't find much time to be together, but the time they do manage is filled with talk about the party. Blaine gives Kurt choices, and asks Kurt to remove the items and activities he has no desire to become further acquainted with from the list.  The activities part gives Kurt no trouble—it's the equipment yay or nay that trips him up.

"These are very nice," he says, touching the contact play toys.

"But?" Blaine asks, sensing a request.

Kurt's eyes drift from Blaine's eyes to his waist. "I really—really want you to use your belt."

Blaine's lips part. "Oh.   _Oh_."

"Too much?"

"No," Blaine says. "God, no."

Seeing the fire in Blaine's eyes, Kurt smiles—tentatively, and then confidently.  He runs his fingertips over the bright buckle and smooth leather of the belt, and then cups Blaine's cock through his pants. "Mm, just enough?"

"You have no idea," Blaine exhales.

"Then show me," Kurt says, sliding to his knees.

They don't get any more planning done that night.

 

*

 

The dinner starts off as all their dinners do—with catching up and delicious, indulgent takeout.  It's French fusion tonight, and Kurt is so in love with the food that he almost forgets what else is on the menu, so to speak.  He and Blaine feed each other while Andrea introduces everyone to her new sub, a performance major with a killer voice and a head of wild curls named Analise who stares at Andrea as if she hangs the moon.  Jorge is at Elliott's side, and Kurt has a feeling that that is maybe becoming more permanent than Elliott thought it would.

After the meal, Jorge and Analise do the dishes while the other four put out the mats in the living room that they use when doing group scenes—just to make sure the rug stays clean and there are comfortable places to kneel and crawl.  Most of their tools are already laid out—open bags and rolls of instruments, a little toiletry bowl full of contraceptives and lubricant and wet wipes and lotion, a cooler with ice packs and drinks, and a basket of towels.

Andrea and Analise are going to do some knotting and a little edging play. Jorge and Elliott are going to use a cane in combination with the cock cage that Elliott is already wearing.

There's a plush armchair off to the left of the television, and that's where Blaine leads Kurt.  

It's been long enough since the meal that Kurt isn’t surprised when Blaine says, "Go ahead and use the bathroom, honey.  I packed your soap and cloths."

Kurt flushes. "Thank you, sir."

When he comes back, clean and changed into a simple pair of boxers, Andrea has Analise a quarter of the way into her ropes and Elliott is in Jorge's lap, kissing him as if he's the only person in the room. It's like every scene night they've shared so far—all of the couples apart but joined by a common desire to have their needs acknowledged and shared in a safe space.  Reassured by each other, often titillated by each other, but not needing to interact directly much at all.  They've all agreed to allowing things to progress to sex tonight, so nudity is a given—but there's no additional pressure, just acceptance.

Blaine is standing beside the armchair, stripped down to just his pants, and when Kurt meets his eye he clasps the end of his belt and pushes it through the buckle.  He tugs the leather free with a high-pitched whisper, folds it over double, and places it on the arm of the chair.

"Come here."

Kurt is already sweating.  He shuffles close, his heart in his throat. Blaine cups his face and tugs him down into a soft kiss.  He has to bend a little to make it easier for Blaine to reach.

"Color?" Blaine asks.

"Oh. Green."

Blaine kisses the tip of his nose.  The soft slope beside it.  Just beneath his right eyelid where his skin is gossamer-soft.

"Have I told you how proud I am of you, that you asked for this?  That you invited me and told me everything you wanted?" he asks, kissing down Kurt's cheek to his lips.

"Thank you, sir," Kurt whispers, wrapping his arms around Blaine's shoulders.

"Come sit on my lap.  I just want to touch you for a while."

There's a little pool of light around their chair, and that creates yet another layer of intimacy—Kurt can hear Andrea whispering praise to Analise, and Elliott's clipped but eager grunts as Jorge's mouth bobs around his cock, but it's nothing that he needs to engage or even try to ignore—he can just straddle Blaine's lap, take that sweet, plump mouth under his, and let his needs and desires come to the forefront of his mind.

He  _loves_  this.  He loves kissing Blaine, loves the skim of Blaine's fingers up and down his back, loves the present but lazy rub of their cocks still trapped behind clothing.  He loves the strength in Blaine's wiry body, loves the scrape of his five o'clock shadow, loves the clasp of his thick thighs, loves the raw emotion in his round, wet, hazel eyes.

_He loves Blaine._

It hits him then and there, with a surgical precision that takes his breath away.

_He's in love with Blaine._

"Kurt?" Blaine asks, when his lips falter.

He shivers, framing Blaine's face with his hands. "More.  Please? I need—more."

"What do you want?  I need to know.  I need to hear it."

"The headphones.  The blindfold." Kurt's chest hitches. "I don't want the gag.  I want you to hear me." He takes a deep breath. "I want your b-belt on my ass and I want—I want your cock. However you want to give it to me."

"That's perfect, baby," Blaine whispers, stroking his face. "Can you kneel on the floor with your chest on the seat of the chair? It'll be comfortable and keep you still for me."

Kurt is already slipping under, just at that soft touch.  His mind is three steps ahead—wondering what the chair's fabric's weave will feel like against his bare skin, wondering how long Blaine will make him wait before the first lash, wondering if he'll feel differently without the ability to hear, wondering if being denied sight will sharpen his other senses.

But none of that compares to the brush of the silk blindfold tickled up his naked spine, between his shoulder blades, and around the front of his face, followed by Blaine's lips.  His breathing slips off-rhythm immediately.  And then it's in front of his eyes, and then it's snug around his temples, and the light of the room dims, dims, dims to almost nothing.  Blaine winds the cloth around three times.

They arranged a series of physical cues in lieu of a safeword—since Kurt won't be able to hear Blaine at all.  Kurt reminds himself of them, reciting them like the alphabet with corresponding movements, just before Blaine secures the headphones over his ears.

The world doesn't disappear, but it changes—it becomes the chair under his chest, swallowing his pounding heartbeat.  It becomes the air-conditioning teasing his warm skin with coolness.  It becomes the mat on the floor sticking to and cushioning his knees.  It becomes Blaine's adoring, hot, strong hands mapping every inch of him from his neck to the balls of his feet.  Sight and sound removed, touch and temperature become all that matters.

Kurt doesn't worry.  Can't worry.  

The existence of people and things other than Blaine becomes meaningless. It doesn't even matter where he himself is, particularly, as long as Blaine is there to make it real and safe.  

His skin is so sensitive that every touch draws shuddering huffs of breath and near-whines from his throat and chest.  And when Blaine begins to kiss his back and neck he sinks instantly deeper, the hair on his forearms standing up and goosebumps flowering along his sides and down the back of his thighs.  It's like being lit up from the inside, illuminated beyond everyday understanding—it's a little scary, but that's okay, because Blaine is taking care of everything.

His pulse deepens but doesn't quicken.

Blaine strokes Kurt's ass upward with teasing passes of his hands, until Kurt's back is arched into a perfect c-shape and his face is in the chair's seat.  

And Kurt waits.  

Not impatiently, not in fear, and not in impatience (which is all too common for him)—he just waits, and is content to do so.  This is good.  This is right.  This is everything he needs.  To wait, and to be completely sure that Blaine will decide when and how.  That Blaine will  _know_.

The air over his skin makes it crawl, moment by moment.  The silence and the darkness rise around him, both a torment and protection.  He makes a noise, knows he does because he can feel the vibration, but he can't hear it, can't locate it, can't know how loud—oh, god he's swimming in nothing, he's lost, so fucking  _lost_ —

And that's when the first crack of Blaine's belt lands on his ass.  He cries out.  The pain is excruciating.  It washes across his nerves like a wave of fire in reverse, demanding and jagged-edged.  It fades to a burn, and then to a throb, and then it threatens to disappear.

"Please," he sobs.

 _Crack_. Left cheek.   _Crack_. Right cheek.   _Crack_.

Left to right across both, and then right to left.

_Crack. Crack.  Crack._ _Crack._

He feels his skin burn, feels the welts rise.  Feels the shape of the belt itself.  The details are all he has to get himself above the pain, and he latches onto them.  He can't hear Blaine, can't hear the belt hitting his skin, can't see anything, can't do anything but take it...

Again and again, until his skin is a blazing criss-cross of welts.  There isn't an inch of his ass that doesn't hurt, that isn't throbbing. And his cock is bobbing in midair, too far from the chair to rub against, but he thinks he can feel it dripping at the tip, slippery little plip-plops of pre-come, in a quantity that he has never produced before.

Blaine stops, for a time.  Kurt feels the lovely press of Blaine's hands—not a drag, not a stroke, because that would hurt, but just a press. Blaine's hands, though warm, are still cooler than the overheated mess that his ass has become.  The touch makes Kurt's eyes brim with tears, and in that endless vacuum of quiet his body calms and he falls ever deeper.

There's nothing down here but love and quiet and safety, and every inch of it smells, feels, and sounds like Blaine.

Longer still, and then there's something cold.  A lotion or a gel or—ice? Kurt has no idea.  It's relief in the form of temperature, cooling his fire-hot cheeks in slow, luxurious passes, and he moans and twists, gripping the far edge of the chair's seat cushion, rolling his face back and forth over the fabric.

His cheeks are spread apart, and more of that glorious cold liquid falls in between them.  His skin contracts—and then relaxes as it gets used to the difference, and oh, that's a finger.  Blaine's finger, crooking down and in and slipping inside of him like nothing.  His body clamps up hungrily around the digit, but it does not share his urgency—it enters and leaves him slowly, deliberately, over and over again, until Kurt can barely feel it.  And then another is added, at the same pace, twisting and pressing and so, so wet now. He has no idea how loud he's being—he just knows that he makes noise, and a lot of it.

The third finger burns, but finds a home beside the other two in much the same way.  The fourth hurts, twinges when Blaine pulls out and then makes his rim stretch on the way back in, but Kurt doesn't want it to stop.  He wants the discomfort as much as the pleasure, wants to be open and wide and ready for Blaine.  He wants to be whatever Blaine needs him to be.

Blaine stops corkscrewing his fingers in and out of Kurt's body long enough to—Kurt assumes reach for a condom, or to wipe his fingers off, because when they come back they're dry on Kurt's lower back, pressing in, making it bend even farther, making his ass rise even higher.

Blaine's cock is a thick, hot pressure between his cheeks.  He holds his breath—and Blaine slides into him, inch by inch, not stopping until the skin of Blaine's pelvis is flush against his ass.  It's a lot—but he just had four fingers in him, so he's more than ready.  What's more intense are Blaine's fingers teasing the sloped, throbbing lines of the welts all over his ass with every slow thrust in and equally slow drag out.

The sensation of being full, of something driving in and out of him, drags him back just a little bit into the real world—he takes stock of his trembling limbs and his slippery skin.  He can feel every belt mark, every bruise that Blaine has thumbed into his back and hips. There's fabric burn on his nipples and chest, and he thinks he must have hurt his fingertips at some point gripping the chair's cushion because they ache.

He loses track of how long Blaine fucks his ass open.  He only realizes that it has been going on for quite a while when Blaine's fingers dance up the underside of the shaft of his cock, gathering dripping pre-come and smearing it all over the engorged tip.  His belly quivers, heaves—panic, because how will he know if he has permission?

Blaine's fingers tap that particular signal against his leg—he sobs, and Blaine's fist slides up his cock once, twice, three times, and he comes, his ass tightening with every pulse.  He doesn't know when Blaine comes, only that at some point Blaine gently edges out of his ass, soft.

His subspace stamina has always been impressive, but staying down here is becoming problematic because he wants Blaine.  Consciously, actively, and with all of his senses.

Swimming back up happens in stages.  Blaine cleans his sticky cock and sloppy hole.  Draws him off of his aching knees and lets him sit on the mat with his back to the chair.  Gently lifts the headphones off, but cups his hands over Kurt's ears in lieu of them.

"You're going to think I'm speaking loudly, but I'm not.  Just be patient."

 _Oh. Oh, his voice is so lovely._  Kurt's eyes go wet.

It does indeed feel as if the volume of the world has been turned way up, but Kurt acclimates naturally.  And then the blindfold is removed, and the same happens with the light—the room has been taken down to candlelight, but even that feels like the glare of direct sunlight until Kurt gets used to it.  He realizes after that discomfort passes that he simply can't sit on his ass right now, and Blaine rolls him over onto his belly on the mat instead.  He puts his head in Blaine's lap.  Blaine applies a salve to his cheeks with careful deliberation, not speaking.

Kurt wants to know how everyone else is—but he doesn't have the strength to observe them, and the pain is beginning to reassert itself. Blaine definitely did not hold back.  

"Sweetheart? Can you look at me?"

Kurt raises his head.

"I need to know if you're feeling okay.  I'm going to check your skin in a second, and put some ice on soon, but I want to hear yours words, okay?  I know you're still a little under.  You went really deep."

"Mm," Kurt hums. "Good.  No worries."

He half-sleeps through Blaine gently touching, probing every welt.  The other half is dazed arousal—he's sure that he gets hard again, but Blaine just puts a towel over his skin and then a wide ice pack on top of that.  A half an hour later, the ice packs are gone, replaced by Blaine's lips, soft kisses and little slips of tongue that make Kurt's chilled skin feel too much, make his throat contract and expand frantically and his cock twitch.

"If you could see yourself right now," Blaine exhales, nuzzling his nose and cheek and jaw all over Kurt's buttocks.

Kurt doesn't have the words to tell Blaine just how perfectly that was executed—how it was everything he dreamed of, everything he has ever looked for in a scene.

Blaine licks, gently and slowly, all over his crack and hole, making him moan, making his thighs fall apart.  There's no goal, here, just exploration through touch.

But even that loses steam; they're both exhausted.  Blaine lies down beside him on the mat, and there are pillows and a blanket, a blanket so soft that it doesn't hurt Kurt's abused skin, and Blaine curled up behind and around him, and it feels so good that he can't stay awake.

And, because he has no filter at all right now, he says, "Love you. L-love you.  Sir."

Blaine's arms tighten around him, and he's home.


End file.
